PANTHER'S 
.    CUB 

r  AGNES   AND 
EGERTON    CASTLE 


PANTHER'S  CUB 


IINV, 


O?  GALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELED 


PANTHER'S   CUB 


BY 

AGNES  AND  EGERTON  CASTLE 


AUTHORS  OF 

:RO8E  OF  THE  WORLD,"  "THE  SECRET  ORCHARD 
"THE  STAR  DREAMER,"  "WROTH,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  FLORENCE  R.  A.  WILDE 

''A    garden  enclosed  is  my  sister,  my  spouse 

(Canticle  of  Canticles) 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
AGNES  AND  EGERTON  CASTLE 


Stack 

Annex 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     La  Marmora  ......  3 

II.     "Fifi"             ......  14 

III.     Robecq            ......  20 

IV.     The  Countess  Lovinska  .          .         .         .  25 

V.     The  Training  of  a  Voice           ...  31 

VI.     Friedrich   Meyer      .....  39 

VII.     The  Daughter  of  a  Star  ....  49 

VIII.     Desmond  Brooke     .....  55 

IX.     Sic  Vos  Non  Vobis  .....  60 

X.     Partie  Carrie           .....  69 

XI.     The  Aspirant           .....  78 


BOOK   II 

I.     The  Dowager 87 

II.  Cassandra       ......  97 

III.  Orris's  Folly 104 

IV.  The  Repetitor Ill 

V.  Sir  Joseph  Calls  at  Branksome         .          .  119 

VI.  Gossip   .......  134 


2126.295 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.  The  Panther's  Den          .  .         .  .147 

VIII.  The  Dowager  on  the  Warpath  .  .165 

IX.  Unprofitable  Thoughts    .  .         .  .       182 

X.  A  Dinner  at  Branksome  .  .         .  .189 

XI.  Valuable  Information  .  .       202 


BOOK   III 

I.  Pleasure  and  Business     .         .         .         .213 

II.  Innocence  in  Muslin        ....       219 

III.  The  Last  Strawberry  Party      .         .         .226 

IV.  Storm  and  Stress     .....       234 
V.  Fritz  in  Command           .         .         .         .239 

VI.  Fulvia  Hears  the  Truth          .         .         .252 

VII.  Panther  Prepares  to  Spring      .         .         .271 

VIII.  Fritz  Presumes        .         .         .         .         .283 

IX.  A  Proposal  of  Marriage  ....       296 

X.  Another  Proposal    .....       313 

BOOK   IV 

I.  Fifi  Tells  Her  Story         ....       321 

II.  A  Change  of  Plan            ....       347 

III.     Fritz  Arrives 354 

IV.  An  Exchange  of  Gifts      ....       366 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.     Orange  Blossoms    .....  379 

VI.     Fritz  Gives  His  Consent  .         .         .386 

VII.     La  Marmora's  Final  Defeat     .         .         .  392 

VIII.     Jeanne-Marie  Meyer       ....  400 

IX.     Lady  Desmond       .                   ...  4C7 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

There  she  sat  ...  all  white-robed  against 

the  dark  wall  of  clipped  yew   .    Frontispiece 


FACING   PAGE 


She  was  standing  on  the  lawn  .  .  .  receiv- 
ing her  guests  with  that  urbane,  grande 
dame  manner  in  which  she  was  becom- 
ing ever  more  proficient  .  .  .  152 

"Shall  I  not  dance?"  she  cried,  shaking 

her  mane  once  more  .         .         .         .196 

"Will  you  kindly  step  aside?"  said  Des- 
mond to  the  interloper.  "  I  have  to 
speak  to  my  bride "  .  .  .  .  386 


BOOK   I 


LA  MARMORA 

"Or  COURSE  you  would  not  attempt  the  dance 
yourself.  It's  all  very  well  for  lima,  she's  young 
— though,  if  it  comes  to  that,  if  I  had  anything  to  say  to 
lima,  she  shouldn't  do  it.  A  singer  should  think  of  her 
voice  —  Good  God,  my  dear  friend ! "  said  the  impresario, 
with  his  fat  chuckle,  "if  a  singer  does  not  think  of  her 
voice  before  her  soul,  I " 

He  broke  off.  The  woman  opposite  to  him  had  yawned 
in  his  face;  yawned  brutally,  with  a  noisy  sigh  and  a  dis- 
play of  teeth,  white  and  strong  as  those  of  a  young  dog. 

The  Baron  de  Robecq  was  not  offended,  not  even  taken 
aback.  He  paused  only  because  he  was  essentially  a 
man  of  business,  and  he  was  not  going  to  waste  his  advice 
upon  unhearing  ears.  He  turned  his  cigar  round  and 
round  between  his  fat,  white  fingers  and  waited  good- 
humouredly  until  the  lady's  paroxysm  had  passed.  Then, 
after  puffing  out  a  volume  of  aromatic  smoke  —  Baron  de 
Robecq's  cigars  were  of  proverbial  quality  —  he  pro- 
ceeded in  precisely  the  same  level  intonation  with  his 
interrupted  sentence: 

"  I  wouldn't  give  a  damn  for  her." 

La  Marmora,  who  was  half  reclining  upon  the  spare 
Empire  sofa,  half  supported  by  her  elbow  on  the  small 
table  that  divided  her  from  the  Baron's  armchair,  here 

8 


4  PANTHER'S     CUB 

gave  her  long,  lithe  body  a  twist  that  brought  her  face 
considerably  nearer  that  of  the  smoker.  Chin  on  her 
interlaced  fingers,  she  fixed  him  for  a  moment  through 
narrowed  lids.  Then  she  spoke  with  great  deliberation. 

"  Robecq,  you  may  shut  up  about  Salome  —  I'm  sick 
to  death  of  the  sound  of  the  word,  I  don't  care  what  lima 
does.  But  I  know  this,  I'm  bored  —  I'm  bored,"  she 
repeated  on  a  higher,  fuller  note.  Even  in  speech,  her 
roice  had  rich  and  wonderful  inflections;  it  swelled  now 
like  an  organ  peal.  "You  haven't  got  Fritz's  talent, 
you've  contrived  to  bore  me,  with  your  Salome.  Ah  Qa  " 
with  a  sudden  movement  she  flung  herself  back  on  the 
sofa  and  lay  flat,  her  eyes  sombrely  fixing  the  ceiling: 
"  Do  you  know,  my  friend,  that  you  have  given  me  Salome 
for  breakfast,  Salome  for  dinner,  Salome  for  supper, 
ever  since  we  came  to  Vienna?  I  have  had  it  over  the 
ears,  and  it  bores  me  —  go  then,  and  talk  of  it  to  lima. 
She's  young."  The  full  lips  sneered.  "She'll  take  your 
advice,  I  daresay.  As  for  me,  I'm  not  sure  I  shall  sing  it 
at  all." 

Robecq  hoisted  himself  out  of  the  comfortable  depth 
of  his  seat,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  philosophically. 

A  short,  stout  man  in  those  middle  years  of  life,  when 
the  materialist  begins  to  consider  comfort  superior  to 
pleasure;  he  was  already  bald,  and  the  clipped,  pointed, 
auburn  beard  was  streaked  with  gray.  To  a  casual  ob- 
server, his  somewhat  heavy  face  might  have  seemed 
merely  typical  of  an  easy  good-nature  and  a  large  epi- 
curism. But  there  was  acute  intelligence  in  the  glance 
of  the  small,  quick  eyes,  and  a  fine  development  of  brow 


PANTHER'S    CUB  5 

above  them.  A  materialist  the  Baron  might  be;  but  he 
was  also  a  man  of  art,  of  profound  financial  and  diplo- 
matic capacity. 

It  is  the  special  gift  of  one  powerful  race  that  its  sons 
can  combine  these  apparently  antithetic  temperaments 
with  so  much  success.  Robecq  was  of  that  vast  denation- 
alized nation;  and  like  so  many  of  his  Hebrew  brothers, 
spoke  most  gentile  languages  with  the  fluency  of  the 
native  and  the  accent  of  the  stranger. 

His  English  bore  curiously  the  impress  of  two  other 
tongues;  its  drawling  and  emphatic  enunciation  was  trans- 
atlantic; while  the  roll  of  gutterals,  and  the  uncertainty  of 
consonants  were  German. 

"Why,  then,  Fulvia,"  he  remarked,  after  a  pause, 
"we'll  give  Salome  a  rest.  Anyhow,  as  I  told  you  yes- 
terday, I'm  not  at  all  keen  on  your  beginning  the  score 
till  Fritz  is  back." 

"  What  did  you  drag  me  to  this  hateful  place  for,  then  ?  " 

"  My  dear  friend " 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  Vienna  is  no  milieu  for 
me.  What  position  have  I  —  an  opera  singer  —  in 
Vienna?  Ah,  la  sotte  vitte /  Ah,  my  fine  days  in  St. 
Petersburg!" 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other,  Fulvia.  Do  you  want 
to  be  heard  at  Covent  Garden?  My  Lord!"  said  the 
man,  with  a  weary  laugh,  "did  you  not  din  it  into  my 
ears  long  enough  that  I  had  done  nothing  for  you  since 
I  had  failed  to  get  you  London  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  snapped,  "London's  the  only  centre  for 
an  artist.  In  London  an  artist  is  recognized;  she  takes 
rank;  she " 


6  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"She  is  more  sought  after  than  a  duchess,  and  no  one 
inquires  into  her  morals,"  the  other  interrupted  unemo- 
tionally. "Granted.  You're  going  to  London.  But 
how  did  I  manage  it,  my  dear  friend  ?  The  syndicate 
wouldn't  have  you,  not  at  any  price.  There  was  some  one 
wanted  to  keep  you  out,  over  there " 

"  Oh  —  devil  take  her !    Don't  I  know  ?  " 

"  But  I  got  you  in  on  Salome  —  the  public  will  have 
novelty." 

"Aye."  The  singer  reared  her  superb  figure  from  its 
lolling  attitude;  and,  one  hand  on  her  hip,  sketched  a 
sinuous  step :  "  Let  her  try  Salome  —  ce  traversin,  cette 
tonne  la!" 

With  his  patient  drawl,  he  brought  the  erratic  mind 
back  to  the  argument: 

"And  you  had  to  see  the  performance  for  yourself, 
hadn't  you?" 

But  swiftly  she  attacked  him  in  flank. 

"And  why  did  I  not  create  the  part?  It  was  your 
business,  mon  cher!  And  why,  since  the  matter  is  so 
important,  did  you  allow  Fritz  to  go  to  Carlsbad  just  now, 
when  I  wanted  him  so  badly?" 

"Because,  if  your  repetitor  is  not  fit  for  his  work,  the 
prima  donna  —  his  gout  has  to  be  nursed  as  carefully  as 
your  voice,  my  dear;  have  you  forgotten  that?"  Here 
he  suddenly  paused.  What  was  the  good  of  talking  com- 
mon sense  to  such  a  creature?  Pie  began  afresh  in  a 
soothing  voice.  "Every  fine  artist  creates  her  own  part, 
don't  forget  that.  I  wanted  you  to  hear  Ilma's  reading, 
not  to  copy  her." 

Fulvia  de  la  Marmora  flung  herself  violently  back  on 


PANTHER'S     CUB  7 

her  sofa;  thrust  her  fingers  into  her  ears,  and  gave  a  short, 
piercing  scream. 

"  If  you  mention  lima  again,  if  I  hear  one  word  more 
about  that  skinny,  squalling  little  brute  —  M on  Dieu, 
let  her  dance !  That's  what  she's  fit  for,  to  kick  the  skirts 
in  a  cafe-chantant  and  rap  the  tambourine.  I've  heard 
as  good  a  song  through  a  keyhole ! " 

The  prima  donna  rolled  off  the  couch,  drove  her  silk- 
stockinged  feet  into  dilapidated  pink  slippers,  and  took  a 
restless  turn  across  the  window  bow.  Imperturbably 
the  man  shifted  his  position  to  watch  her.  Behind  the 
blue  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  his  brain  was  busily  working. 

"  There's  not  a  woman  on  the  stage  can  move  like  that. 
The  Panther  —  never  was  better  nick-name !  Why,  she 
is  Salome — Strauss's  Salome  —  the  world's  Salome! 
If  she  could  have  Ilma's  head  on  a  charger,  she'd  dance 
right  enough  for  it,  this  moment!  But  it  must  be  this 
year  or  never.  The  body's  young  enough  still  —  but  the 
voice?  I  shall  be  very  much  mistaken  if  we  don't  have 
to  lower  the  score  as  it  is,  by  half  a  tone." 

La  Marmora  halted  in  her  feline  prowl,  and  stood 
staring  down  into  the  gay,  spring-lit  Ring.  All  at  once 
she  cried  in  an  altered  lone : 

"Come  here,  Robecq!"  And  as  the  man  approached, 
she  pointed  dramatically.  A  carriage  had  halted  before 
the  hotel  entrance.  Its  splendid  horses,  coroneted  panels, 
servants  smart  as  only  Viennese  lacqueys  can  be,  would 
all  have  proclaimed  a  fashionable  and  aristocratic  owner, 
had  not  the  occupants  themselves  conclusively  settled 
the  point.  These  were  a  mother  and  daughter;  "fine," 
in  the  French  sense,  both:  with  delicate  pale  faces  under 


8  PANTHER'S     CUB 

their  spring  hats,  and  that  elegant  simplicity  of  attire 
which  demands  so  expensive  a  faiseur.  The  girl  was 
fresh  as  the  primroses  at  her  breast,  and  charming  in  her 
freshness;  but,  contrasted  with  her  mother,  had  some- 
thing of  the  unsatisfying  meagreness  of  a  sketch  beside 
a  finished  painting. 

Humouring  the  singer,  after  his  fashion,  the  impres- 
sario  bent  to  look. 

"Is  it  the  hats  that  take  your  fancy?"  he  inquired  in 
his  unctuous  voice. 

"Idiot!"  she  said.  "  Wait  a  minute,  wait.  He  will  be 
back!" 

Even  as  she  spoke,  a  tall,  dark  man,  as  unmistakably 
English  as  the  ladies  in  the  carriage  were  of  Vienna, 
emerged  from  the  hotel,  and  somewhat  languidly  took  a 
seat  opposite  to  them.  Before  the  carriage  drew  away 
with  clatter  and  dash,  Robecq's  keen  glance  took  a  rapid 
inventory  of  the  countenance  of  him  who  had  so  much 
interested  his  prima  donna.  As  refined  and  pale  as  the 
women  themselves,  and  as  high-bred;  a  young  man  still, 
but  worn-looking,  tired. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  La  Marmora,  in  French  this  time, 
still  with  her  pointed  finger. 

Robecq  shrugged  his  shoulders  —  he  could  also  be 
French  when  occasion  suited.  She  moved  back  to  her 
sofa  with  her  long,  restless  step,  dropping  a  slipper  on  her 
way.  He  picked  it  up  and  followed  her  with  it: 

"You  will  catch  cold,"  he  said,  placing  it  before 
her. 

"I  want  to  know  who  it  is,"  she  ordered,  kicking  the 
slipper  away.  "  I  want  to  know  him." 


PANTHER'S     CUB  9 

"One  can  always  ask  the  name  in  the  hall,"  he  con- 
ceded, patiently. 

"  Did  you  see  he  had  no  eyes  but  for  the  mother  ?  That 
woman  was  older  than  I  am,  Robecq."  Then,  with  her 
abrupt  change  of  mood,  she  burst  forth  —  and  her  voice 
had  tears  in  it.  "  But  I'm  also  a  mother.  My  God,  you 
would  grind  the  heart  out  of  me  in  this  odious  carriere! 
I  am  a  mother,  Robecq,  I  want  my  child,  I  will  have  my 
child  —  Robecq ! "  She  beat  the  table  with  her  im- 
patient hand.  "  I,  too,  will  have  my  child  to  drive  beside 
me!  I  will  have  a  carriage  and  a  pair  of  chestnuts,  and 
the  little  one  beside  me  in  the  Prater.  .  .  .  She  shall 
wear  a  hat  with  blue  wings  in  it  —  the  little  one." 

Her  long,  green  eyes,  that  had  an  extraordinary  lustre 
between  very  black  lashes,  were  now  suffused.  "I  have 
not  seen  her  for  how  many  —  heavens !  —  how  many 
years  ?  " 

He  reckoned  a  moment :  "  Not  since  Lausanne  — 
getting  on  for  three." 

She  wailed.  "Lausanne!  How  can  you  remind  me 
of  it  ?  .  .  .  the  little  innocent !  —  Monsters  you  are 
to  me,  you  and  Fritz.  I  will  have  her  telegraphed  for, 
to-day,  now!" 

"  Now,"  said  Robecq,  assenting  with  perfect  amiability. 
His  cigar,  two-thirds  smoked,  he  dropped  into  the 
grate,  and  moved  to  the  door.  "I  will  telegraph,"  he 
said. 

"As  you  are  going  down,"  she  asked  in  mellifluous 
tones,  "ask  the  porter  the  name  of  that  man." 

As  Robecq  closed  the  door  gently,  he  laughed. 

La  Marmora's  tactics  were  elemental. 


10  PANTHER'S     CUB 

Baron  de  Robecq  had  two  principles  in  life  which  had 
carried  him  from  poverty  to  affluence;  from  obscurity  to 
the  utmost  distinction  to  which  a  man  of  his  kind  could 
attain:  "Never  mix  pleasure  with  business";  "Nothing 
was  ever  done  in  a  hurry  that  could  not  have  been  done 
better  with  deliberation." 

Madame  la  Marmora  in  her  eighteen  years'  professional 
intercourse  with  him  had  been  obliged  to  accept  the  first 
of  these  axioms,  though  not  without  a  struggle.  But  to 
the  second,  she  could  never  adapt  herself. 

When  he  returned  to  the  sitting  room  upon  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  errands,  he  found  her  raging  again. 
The  carpet  was  strewn  with  scarce-smoked  cigarettes. 
She  paused  in  the  act  of  striking  a  fresh  match  to  turn 
her  glare  upon  him. 

"At  last!  It  takes  you  then  an  eternity  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion !  Did  I  not  tell  you  I  was  boring  myself  ?  Did  you 
not  understand  that  ?  " 

Ascending,  her  wrathful  cry  broke  suddenly  into  hoarse- 
ness. The  man  raised  his  eyebrows  significantly,  then 
came  across  the  room,  took  the  match  from  her  hand, 
closed  the  cigarette  box  and  slipped  it  into  his  tail  pocket. 

"Hein!"  he  said  then  in  his  crawling  voice,  "that  was 
a  little  warning,  was  it  not  ?  Do  that  once  on  the  boards, 
my  dear  —  na !  Only  go  on  as  you  are  going,  smoke, 
excite  yourself,  scream,  and  you  will  do  it.  'Tis  Robecq 
tells  you  so." 

There  was  fear  in  the  still  furious  glance  she  flung 
sideways  at  him.  Her  lip  trembled.  She  panted  and 
choked,  but  Robecq  had  not  spent  the  years  of  his  man- 
hood in  traffic  with  that  most  delicate  of  all  commodities, 


PANTHER'S     CUB  11 

the  human  voice,  and  its  concomitant  erratic  humanity, 
without  having  learned  how  to  deal  with  his  wares.  Even 
at  the  eleventh  hour  he  could  avert  the  storm. 

"It  seems,"  he  remarked  tranquilly,  ''that  the  man  is 
English." 

The  heaving  shoulder  turned  upon  him  became  still. 

"A  toff,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Robecq  jocularly.  "In 
the  Embassy  here.  One  Lord  Desmond  Brooke." 

"  Lord  Desmond  "  - —  she  repeated  the  name  in  her 
softest  note.  As  by  a  miracle  the  suffocating  tumult 
within  her  had  subsided. 

"Brother  to  the  Marquis  of  Sturminster,"  the  Jew 
proceeded  with  unction,  "and  son  of  that  tremendous 
•old  lady  known  as  'Martia  Marchioness. ' ' 

"It  is  the  porter  told  you  all  that ? "  she  queried. 

For  the  first  time  that  day  she  smiled.  Her  rather 
square-cut  lips  tilted  upward,  and  the  full  beauty  of  her 
face,  somewhat  hard  and  brooding  in  repose,  became 
revealed  as  by  a  ray  of  sunlight. 

"No,  Fulvia,  no,  my  dear  friend,  I  happened  to  have 
met  Sturminster  more  than  once."  His  eye  became  remin- 
iscent; a  chuckle  gently  shook  him.  "I  had  the  honour 
also  of  bowing  to  'Martia  Marchioness'  once;  she  didn't 
bow  to  me.  These  cast-iron  old  London  ladies  unbend 
to  music,  most  of  them,  you  know  —  but  she's  an  excep- 
tion." 

The  singer  made  a  gesture  as  if  brushing  aside  an  im- 
portunate fly. 

"  What's  that  to  me  ?     Did  you  ever  meet  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Robecq ! "     She  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  opened 


1£  PANTHER'S     CUB 

her  narrow  eyes  wide  upon  him.  Her  voice  was  caressing. 
He  smiled  back  at  her  with  utter  good- humour.  Such 
creatures  had  to  be  treated  like  children.  A  good  slap 
when  it  was  necessary;  a  sweet  or  a  top  to  keep  them  quiet 
afterward.  La  Marmora  had  had  her  slap,  she  should 
have  her  sweet. 

"But  I  know  Darcy  at  the  Embassy,"  he  conceded. 

She  clapped  her  hands: 

"  You're  a  darling  old  thing."  Then  she  ran  her  fingers 
through  her  hair  reflectively,  and  sank  contentedly  back 
on  the  cushions  of  the  sofa.  "  C'est  ca!  You  will 
arrange  that." 

"A  supper  party?"  he  suggested. 

She  drew  her  brows  together: 

"  A  supper  party  ?  Ah,  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  going 
to  have  it  a  la  Bohemienne.  I'm  a  great  artist.  I'm  as 
good  as  any  of  the  fine  ladies  here.  Aye  —  and  better ! 
Shall  I  not  have  my  daughter  with  me,  too?  You  did 
wire  for  Fifi?  A  mother  with  her  daughter?  .  .  . 
Come,  what  do  you  mean  with  your  supper  parties? 
Who  do  you  take  me  for  ?  " 

"  A  dejeuner,  then  ?  It  won't  be  quite  so  easy."  He 
rubbed  his  grizzled  beard.  "But  one  can  always  try. 
Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  wired  for  Fifi.  And  you  shall  drive 
up  in  the  carriage  with  the  chestnuts,  with  Miss  Fifi  beside 
you  —  in  a  blue- winged  hat." 

Once  more  mirth  gurgled  from  him. 

"Arrange  it,  then,"  she  said,  with  dignity. 

During  their  conversation  he  had  been  collecting, 
first  with  one  foot,  then  with  the  other,  into  a  neat  little 
pile,  the  cigarettes  scattered  on  the  floor.  This  he  now 


PANTHER'S     CUB  13 

ground  under  his  heel,  which  execution  being  accom- 
plished he  went  over  to  the  open  grand  piano  and  closed  it. 
Then,  with  the  same  deliberation  he  took  possession  of 
the  score  of  the  opera  Salome,  which  was  lying  face 
downward  on  the  stool. 

"It  is  arranged."  He  repeated  her  words.  "We 
shall  have  a  pleasant  social  time  in  Vienna  and  leave 
Salome  until  Fritz  returns." 


II 

"FIFI" 

THE  headmistress  of  the  English  School  where  Virginia 
Lovinska  was  still  pursuing  her  studies  at  the  some- 
what unusual  age  of  twenty  years  and  ten  months, 
telegraphed  back  that  the  young  lady  would  be  dispatched 
by  the  next  day's  express. 

Now  it  says  something  for  Baron  de  Robecq's  good- 
nature that  the  matutinal  hour  of  six-thirty  found  him 
pent  up  in  the  waiting  room  of  the  Westbahn,  possessing 
his  soul  with  characteristic  patience  till  the  arrival  of  the 
train  from  Basle  should  liberate  him. 

On  the  last  occasion  when  he  had  seen  Virginia,  or 
rather  Fifi  —  for  he  never  thought  of  her  by  any  other 
than  her  child's  pet  name  —  she  had  been  still  in  the 
hobbledehoy  stage  of  girlhood  in  spite  of  her  seventeen 
years.  But  he  trusted  to  a  good  memory,  coupled 
with  an  unusual  power  of  observation,  for  an  easy 
recognition.  Yet,  after  all,  it  was  the  girl  herself  who 
hailed  him. 

"Hullo,  Baron!"  Her  voice  rang  out  clear  and  gay 
and  loud,  to  the  shocked  discomfiture  of  the  little  ex- 
hausted English  teacher,  who  stood  helplessly  beside  her 
on  the  platform. 

"Hush,  my  dear!     Every  one  will  hear  you!" 

"  Well,  what  does  it  matter  —  so  long  as  he  hears  me  ?  " 

14 


PANTHER'S     CUB  15 

cried  the  girl.  "He's  come  to  meet  us.  Hey,  Baron! 
Here  I  am!" 

She  never  could  understand  why  people  should  be 
shocked  at  behaviour  that  was  simply  logical.  All  her 
years  of  prim  school  life  had  not  succeeded  in  teaching  her 
the  value  of  a  single  convention. 

The  Baron  wheeled  round ;  then  he  took  off  his  hat,  and 
came  forward,  with  a  genial  smile  that  changed  into  a 
look  of  intense  surprise,  succeeded  by  one  of  admiration. 
Both  these  emotions  were  so  rapidly  superseded  again 
by  an  air  of  mere  cordiality  that  it  would  have  required 
very  keen  eyes  to  detect  them. 

Neither  Virginia  nor  Miss  Smithson  observed  anything 
but  a  businesslike  benevolence. 

"  Miss  Fifi!  —  My  word,  how  you've  grown!  —  Where's 
your  luggage  ticket  ?  The  hotel  porter  is  waiting  for  it. 
Now  you  both  come  right  along  with  me  to  my  little  car." 

"My  dear,  you  haven't  introduced  me,"  fluttered  Miss 
Smithson,  who  thought  the  Baron  a  gentleman  of  most 
aristocratic  mien. 

"  Oh  —  Baron  —  this  is  Miss  Smithson.  She's  the 
second  English  teacher.  Madame  Aubert  had  fits  at  the 
bare  idea  of  my  coming  alone!" 

Virginia's  ideas  of  social  grace  were  conspicuous  by 
their  absence.  But  Robecq  carried  off  the  situation  with 
what  the  little  governess  considered  high-bred  tact.  His 
bald  head  shone  as  he  removed  his  Homburg  hat  for 
another  bow. 

"  Glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Miss  Smithson." 
And  on  that  he  shook  hands  with,  as  she  told  herself, 
blushing  agreeably,  quite  a  pressure. 


16  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The  little  padded  landaulette  rolled  luxuriously  through 
the  streets.  Robecq  from  his  seat  opposite  the  travellers 
let  his  shrewd  eye  rest  in  ever  larger  appreciation  on  La 
Marmora's  daughter. 

As  he  looked,  he  became  himself  unusually  and  un- 
pleasantly conscious  of  his  forty-five  years,  of  his  denuded 
cranium,  of  his  rounded  waistcoat.  He  passed  his  hand 
across  his  chin  and  felt  the  gray  bristle  in  his  beard 
through  the  suede  glove.  For  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  his  existence  he  waxed  purely  sentimental.  "Divine 
youth  —  glorious  youth ! "  he  said  to  himself. 

Despite  the  racking  experience  of  that  night's  journey 
which  had  written  itself  in  a  score  of  grimy  lines  on  the 
English  teacher's  sallow  countenance,  Virginia's  youthful 
vitality  emerged  triumphant.  The  disarranged  mass  of 
her  dark  auburn  hair  seemed  to  spring  from  her  temples 
with  a  life  of  its  own.  The  short  oval  face  glowed  like 
a  ripe  fruit,  whereon  the  faint  but  lovely  gold  of  sunshine 
itself  seemed  to  overlie  the  rose  and  white. 

Robecq's  stare  prolonged  itself  and  drew  her  notice 
with  a  sudden  wondering  parting  of  her  lips  and  widening 
of  her  eyes.  The  mouth  was  square-cut,  the  eyes  were 
golden  hazel  —  she  was  a  woman,  almost.  But  the  soul 
that  looked  out  of  those  eyes  was  that  of  a  child. 

The  man  gave  her  a  paternal  smile. 

"You  don't  show  as  if  you  had  been  travelling  all 
night,"  said  he,  in  a  banal  tone;  adding  in  his  mind,  and 
in  the  vernacular  that  came  most  naturally  to  him :  "  You 
peach,  you!" 

The  girl  laughed. 

"Not  that  I  would  have  cared;  only,  poor  Miss  Smith- 


PANTHER'S     CUB  17 

son  could  not  sleep.  So,  of  course,  I  couldn't  sleep  either. 
She  takes  a  lot  of  looking  after  on  a  journey  —  don't 
you,  Smithy,  dear?" 

Robecq's  eye  twinkled  humorously.  The  teacher 
had  been  sent  to  "look  after"  the  pupil.  Yet  Madame 
Aubert  had  been  right:  such  youth  and  beauty  and  inno- 
cent self-reliance  were  not  to  be  sent  out  into  the  world 
alone.  He  did  not  know  himself  in  this  morning's  mood. 
To  sentimentality  was  now  being  added  an  emotion  re- 
sembling pity.  What  was  to  become  of  this  radiant  being  ? 
What  mercy  would  the  Panther  have  upon  anything  so 
helpless  and  so  lovely  ? 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  he  brought  his  urbanity  to 
respond  to  Miss  Smithson's  observation. 

"I  am  a  wretched  traveller,"  the  poor  spinster  was 
saying,  with  that  singular  pride  in  infirmity  which  belongs 
to  her  type. 

"It  is  a  most  trying  ordeal,"  said  the  Baron. 

Miss  Smithson  thrilled  to  the  sympathy  in  his  voice. 

"  My  dear,  who  is  the  gentleman  ? "  she  took  occasion 
to  whisper  to  Virginia,  as  they  entered  the  hotel  hall 
together.  "An  Austrian  nobleman,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl  indifferently.  "He's 
Mama's  business  manager." 

The  little  governess  was  incapable  of  grasping  the  situa- 
tion. Everything  surrounding  a  prima  donna  was  to 
her  enveloped  in  lurid  mystery.  That  such  a  one  should 
have  an  Austrian  nobleman  for  business  manager  —  a 
nobleman  of  such  wealth,  obviously  —  seemed  strange 
and  romantic,  and  was  perhaps  wicked.  "I  will  not 
inquire  further,"  she  told  herself.  "There  are  things 


18  PANTHER'S     CUB 

I  do  not  want  to  hear  about.  .  .  .  But,  however 
wrong,  how  fascinating  the  nobility  can  be!" 

La  Marmora's  sallow,  ugly  French  maid  was  waiting 
for  them  in  the  palm  lounge  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
She  was  a  grim  creature,  whom  Virginia  associated  with 
most  of  the  unpleasant  memories  of  her  childhood.  Hers 
was  the  hand  that  had  slapped,  shaken;  that  had  brushed 
so  excruciatingly,  soaped  with  such  disregard  of  eyes 
and  mouth. 

"You're  to  come  upstairs  at  once,"  ordered  Elisa. 

"Well,  I  will  say  good-bye  for  the  moment,"  said  the 
Baron. 

But  Virginia,  unheeding,  was  already  in  the  lift.  Miss 
Smithson  blushed  for  such  discourtesy. 

"I  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged,"  she  murmured. 

He  took  the  cold,  knobby  hand  in  its  cotton  glove,  into 
his  warm,  soft  clasp. 

"I'm  to  go  back  this  evening,"  she  faltered,  unable 
to  resist  the  impulse  of  expansion.  "It  is  Madame 
Aubert's  particular  wish."  How  many  years  it  was  since 
any  man  had  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  human  kinship! 
"She  said  I  could  sleep  in  the  coupe-lit  just  as  well  as  in 
my  bed." 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend!"  said  the  Baron,  and  clacked 
his  tongue.  "I  wonder,"  he  added,  as  the  lift  swung  out 
of  sight,  "  have  they  ordered  a  room  for  you  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  away,  and  after  a  quick,  master- 
ful colloquy  at  the  Bureau,  returned  smiling,  a  waiter  at 
his  heels. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed  at  once,  he'll  show  you  a 
room.  And  I've  ordered  breakfast  to  be  brought  to  you. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  19 

You  must  want  another  breakfast  —  coffee  and  Brod- 
chen  and  fresh  egg,  such  as  only  Vienna  can  give  you. 
Have  it  in  bed  and  sleep  till  dinner.  Time  enough  to  see 
Madame  la  Marmora  when  you're  rested." 

He  bowed  to  her  twice  in  response  to  the  stammered 
thanks,  and  with  quick,  short  steps  was  gone  out  into  the 
gay  street  to  his  car. 

For  ever  after  he  lived  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  Jane 
Smithson's  heart  —  "A  real  nobleman!" 


Ill 

ROBECQ 

BARON  DE  ROBECQ,  financier,  operatic  manager  of 
European  and  American  celebrity,  had  in  truth  been 
born  in  Vienna;  but  that  event  had  taken  place  in  the 
Judengasse,  and  the  name  bestowed  upon  him  by  his 
parents  had  been  Jokanahan  Hirsch.  These  circum- 
stances had  as  much  passed  out  of  his  existence  as  if 
they  belonged  to  another  incarnation.  He  acknowledged 
no  memory  beyond  those  subsequent  years  in  New  York, 
when,  as  John  Rehbock,  the  smart  office  boy  of  the  firm  of 
Mendoza,  Taubman  and  Maw,  Public  Entertainment 
Company,  he  had  begun  to  mark  the  leading  principles  of 
financial  success,  in  connection  with  the  high  commercial 
potentialities  of  Art. 

He  was  barely  twenty  when  he  made  his  first  coup. 
The  firm,  as  often  happens  where  thousands  are  juggled 
with  daily,  found  itself  in  sudden  and  urgent  need  of 
50,000  dollars.  The  office  boy,  now  confidential  clerk, 
begged  for  an  hour's  leave  of  absence,  ran  at  full  speed 
back  to  his  lodgings  and  then  and  there  proposed  a 
business  transaction  to  a  certain  elderly  Jewess  who  had 
shown  him  distinct  favour  ever  since  they  had  first  made 
acquaintance. 

"  If  you  trust  me  with  50,000,"  he  told  her  deliberately, 
"I  will  double  it  for  you  within  three  months." 

20 


PANTHER'S    CUB  21 

She  bade  him  sit  down  beside  her  and  expound  the 
situation.  Her  decision  had  to  be  immediate  and  she 
made  it  so.  But  with  one  condition : 

"  I  will  risk  it,"  she  said,  "  for  my  husband." 

Neither  did  he  hesitate.  In  that  brief  colloquy  (he 
was  fomd  of  telling  his  friends)  he  had  recognized  a  busi- 
ness mind  that  matched  his  own.  "What  if  my  first 
dear  wife  was  twenty-five  years  older  than  myself  — 
till  the  day  we  separated  we  were  one  soul." 

It  was  thus  that  John  Rehbock  was  admitted  by  a 
single  bold  transaction  into  two  partnerships  at  once. 
He  made  his  own  terms  with  the  firm. 

One  of  those  fortunate  beings  of  whom  it  is  proverbially 
said,  "everything  they  touch  turns  to  gold,"  he  could 
look  back  now  on  every  stage  of  his  existence  with  the 
satisfactory  conviction  that  it  had  not  only  helped  him 
definitely  on  his  determined  way  to  fortune,  but  had  been 
so  happily  concatenated  with  the  past  that  there  was  no 
retrogression. 

Had  not  Jokanahan  Hirsch  chosen  America  for  his 
adopted  land,  John  Rehbock  had  not  been  able  so  easily 
to  free  himself  from  his  first  matrimonial  alliance,  at  the 
ripe  moment  —  for  the  moment  did  come  when  this  union 
of  business  souls  was  dissolved  by  mutual  consent.  Mrs. 
Rehbock  began  to  find,  with  increasing  years  and  infirm- 
ities that  the  atmosphere  of  speculation  and  consequent 
feverish  excitement,  which  was  as  the  breath  of  her  young 
husband's  nostrils,  was  too  trying  for  her.  She  could  not 
reproach  him  with  failure,  for  he  had  kept  his  first  promise 
with  biblical  prodigality  —  full  measure  pressed  down, 
running  over!  Neither,  she  quite  recognized,  could  she 


22  PANTHER'S    CUB 

expect  him  to  share  in  her  longing  for  rest  and  retirement. 
With  the  same  good-humoured  placidity  which  had 
marked  all  their  marital  relations,  they  decided  to  part, 
and  repaired  for  the  purpose  to  that  State  where  the  best 
legal  facilities  abounded.  They  divided  lives  and  spoils 
with  mutual  respect,  esteem  and  an  odd  sort  of 
regret. 

John  Rehbock  started  life  again  with  a  halved  fortune 
—  but  a  free  man. 

After  a  lengthy  European  tour  connected  with  ever 
wider-reaching  managerial  schemes  he  returned  to  New 
York  in  possession  of  a  new  name  —  Jean  de  Robecq  — 
a  well-authenticated  Belgian  pedigree  and  religion  to 
match,  and  a  new  wife — a  Dutch  lady  of  considerable 
personal  attractions,  excellent  society  manners,  and  an 
aptitude  for  spending  money  as  great  as  had  been  Mrs. 
Rehbock's  capacity  for  saving. 

To  the  superficial  observer  this  second  matrimonial 
venture  of  the  rising  impresario  might  have  seemed 
disastrous,  for  it  ended,  after  a  couple  of  years,  in  Madame 
de  Robecq's  elopement  with  an  Italian  tenor,  whereupon 
she  was  divorced  in  her  turn  without  the  necessity  of 
any  pilgrimage  to  more  accommodating  regions.  But 
the  man  found  advantages  in  the  affair  —  advantages 
which  counterbalanced  the  slight  unpleasantness  of  its 
abrupt  conclusion. 

In  one  unerring  swing  he  had  attained  social  eminence. 
Madame  de  Robecq's  parties  had  become  famous;  for 
if  she  had  known  how  to  invite  and  to  receive,  he  had 
known  how  to  provide  such  entertainment  as  royalty 
itself  could  scarce  achieve  and  which  the  most  restless 


PANTHER'S    CUB  23 

and  pleasure-seeking  society  in  the  world  was  quick  to 
appreciate. 

Those  two  years  of  reckless  extravagance  and  domestic 
discomfort  had  been  worth  the  result.  When  Madame 
de  Robecq  opportunely  departed,  she  had  served  her  turn. 
Jean  de  Robecq  stood  where  he  intended,  and  was  strong 
enough  to  stand  alone. 

From  Rehbock  to  Robecq,  with  the  added  elegance  of 
the  particule,  had  been  as  natural  a  transition  as  from 
Hirsch  to  Rehbock.  When  the  title  of  Baron  came  to 
complete  this  ingenuous  edifice  in  nomenclature,  he  was 
ready  to  receive  the  crown,  the  tortil  de  Baron,  without 
undue  elation  upon  a  pate  already  bald. 

No  great  operatic  venture  could  be  undertaken  without 
his  cooperation.  Already  in  every  artistic  circle,  however 
select,  in  whatever  class,  his  was  a  name  to  conjure  with. 
If  Leopold  of  Belgium  had  not  been  the  first  to  recognize 
his  services,  by  this  trifling  prefix,  his  own  original  sover- 
eign, or  Germany's  potentate,  would  have  certainly  done 
so  in  a  very  short  time.  But  the  cradle  of  the  ancient 
family  of  De  Robecq  is  to  be  found  on  Belgic  lands. 
And  other  European  nations  could  not  be  jealous  as,  on 
gala  nights,  the  cosmopolitan  nature  of  his  fame  was 
displayed  in  a  miniature  chaplet  of  decorations,  which 
ranged  from  the  Legion  d'Honneur  to  the  Croix  de  St. 
Nicholas  de  Montenegro. 

Much  of  his  rapid  and  complete  success  had  been  no 
doubt  owing  to  his  own  fortunate  business  temperament, 
coupled  with  unerring  artistic  sagacity.  As  some  men 
can  instantly  distinguish  the  false  and  the  real  in  gems, 
Robecq's  flair  for  the  genuine  money-maker  was  such  that 


£4  PANTHER'S    CUB 

it  never  once  misled   him.     Besides   which   the   man's 
luck  had  become  proverbial. 

It  was,  for  instance,  by  an  accidental  supper  party  at 
the  house  of  a  young  Polish  spendthrift  in  Biarritz  that 
he  first  came  across  La  Marmora's  superb  personality, 
and  recognized  the  golden  possibilities  of  her  voice. 


IV 

THE   COUNTESS   LOVINSKA 

M.  JEAN  DE  ROBECQ  —  not  yet  Baron  —  but  newly 
released  once  more  from  matrimony,  had  halted  at 
Biarritz,  on  his  way  back  from  Madrid,  whither  he  had 
gone  to  verify  some  wonderful  tales  anent  a  new  dancer. 
The  dancer  failed  to  strike  him  in  a  pecuniary  light. 
In  her  own  atmosphere  she  passed  —  to  the  clink  of 
castanets,  to  white  grins  on  swarthy  faces  —  but  in  New 
York  or  Petersburg,  her  little  canaille  gifts  would  have 
been  petrified. 

At  the  casino  at  Biarritz,  he  was  hailed  by  an  eager, 
hectic,  handsome  youth,  who  grasped  him  by  both  hands, 
called  him  mon  cher,  reminded  him  effusively  of  happy 
meetings  in  New  York,  and  invited  him  cordially  for  the 
same  evening.  "I  have  a  little  villa  on  the  cliff  —  my 
buen  retiro.  You  shall  have  an  entertainment  .  .  . 
je  ne  vous  dis  que  ca!  You  shall  meet  one,"  he  kissed 
his  fingers  extravagantly,  "  a  pearl  —  a  splendour ! 
Wait  —  come  and  see.  Je  ne  vous  dis  que  qa!" 

The  impresario,  who  had  been  contemplating  the 
young  man  with  his  steady,  small,  urbane  eyes,  suddenly 
found  a  name  for  the  well- remembered  face  —  he  never 
forgot  a  face. 

"Count  Lovinski  —  I'm  sure  I'm  very  pleased  to  meet 
you  again!" 


26  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Yes  —  he  knew  him  now.  The  Pole  had  shot,  meteor- 
like,  across  the  horizon  of  New  York  society  some  two 
years  previously.  He  had  been  indeed  of  Robecq's 
brand-new  salon.  He  had  had  then  already,  Robecq 
recalled,  a  talent  for  discovering  pearls  from  rather  low 
surroundings,  and  setting  them  with  great,  if  transient 
splendour.  Robecq  had  no  great  taste  for  such  jewellery 
himself;  but  he  felt  genially  inclined  toward  his  only 
acquaintance  in  the  gay  Basque  town,  and  he  benevolently 
consented  to  come  and  inspect. 

The  little  villa  was  situated  high  on  the  falaise  and  com- 
manded a  gorgeous  view  of  Atlantic  and  Pyrenees.  It 
faced  the  sunset,  and  the  waters  were  still  glowing  with  the 
blood-red  afterglow,  as  he  ascended  the  perron. 

Count  Lovinski's  pearl  at  first  appeared  to  the  visitor's 
eye  as  very  much  the  usual  type  of  gem  to  be  met  in  such 
a  garconniere. 

She  was  a  fine  specimen,  he  was  ready  to  admit;  and 
paint  and  dye  failed  to  obliterate  real  luxuriance  of  natural 
beauty.  But  she  had  all  the  tricks  of  her  trade;  and  the 
impresario  scarcely  even  found  the  long  looks  through 
half-closed  lids,  the  transparent  pettishness,  the  delib- 
erate smile,  amusing  to  watch;  but  halfway  through  the 
meal  d  trois  —  here  at  least  the  host  had  kept  his  word : 
je  ne  vous  dis  que  ca,  was  quite  appropriate  to  its  ridiculous 
perfection  —  a  slight  incident  occurred  which  gave  a  new 
and  unexpected  interest  to  the  proceedings.  A  child's 
sleepy  cry  rang  out  from  some  inner  room,  and  Count 
Lovinski's  Phryne  rose  precipitately  from  the  table,  and 
with  the  exclamation,  "My  Baby  .  .  .!"  rushed  from 
the  room  with  great  flutter  of  satin  and  gauze. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  27 

"It  is  her  child,"  said  the  Count,  explaining,  between 
two  sips  of  wine.  "I  first  saw  her  with  the  child,  mon 
cher,  and  she  captivated  me  —  such  an  adorable  picture ! " 

"A  widow?"  queried  Robecq  between  two  bites  of 
his  ortolan. 

"A  widow,"  said  the  Count,  haughtily,  instantly  adding 
with  great  good  fellowship,  arching  his  red  eyebrows,  and 
flinging  out  his  emaciated  hand,  shrugging  shoulder- 
blades:  "  Quien  sabe!" 

He  leant  across  the  small  round  table,  to  whisper; 
his  peaked  beard  wagging  against  the  orchids  as  he  did 
so:  "A  mystery.  My  very  dear  Robecq,  I  know  nothing 
of  her.  Past  or  present,  a  sphinx.  She  has  French 
blood  in  her,  certainly.  A  French  mother?  Probably. 
Some  waif  from  Mont  Martre  stranded  in  Australia. 
Australian  on  the  father's  side  —  such  a  mixture  of  wild 
and  decadent  blood !  A  savage  doubled  with  a  chanteuse!  " 
Then  he  proceeded,  his  mad,  blue  eyes  growing  wistful: 
"But  the  little  one  is  a  darling.  If  I  could  get  rid  of  the 
mother,  and  keep  the  little  one 

He  broke  off.  Robecq  was  laughing,  de  son  rire 
bonhomme;  and  there  was  a  sound  of  singing  in  the  passage 
without. 

The  door  was  flung  open.  Clasping  to  her  breast,  and 
rocking  as  she  came  a  well-grown  child  of  some  three 
years,  the  mother  entered  superbly  upon  them. 

"Good  Lord,  but  the  creature  has  movements  —  she 
has  carriage.  I've  never  seen  any  one  walk  like  that 
before,  but  once  a  contadina  in  the  Trastevere  —  and  it 
was  music,  and  poetry  and  strength  and  balance,  and  all 
the  arts  in  one  —  So  thought  the  man  who  trafficked 


28  PANTHER'S    CUB 

in  arts;  and  then  his  admiration  was  checked,  for  the 
ear  superseded  the  eye. 

Count  Lovinski's  camarade  was  singing  a  lullaby  to  her 
burden;  the  while,  three  paces  from  the  door,  she  halted 
and  stood  cradling  and  rocking;  her  eyes  wandered  from 
face  to  face  challenging. 

Her  voice  rang  out  in  one  glorious  high  note,  sustained, 
drawn  out,  fading  away  and  then  dropping  unerringly, 
like  the  lark  on  the  field. 

Robecq  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  the  child  turned  its 
tangled  golden  head  to  smile  sleepily  at  him. 

Jean  de  Robecq,  who  had  meant  to  leave  the  next 
day  for  Paris,  prolonged  his  stay  at  Biarritz. 

Count  Lovinski  had  dropped  certain  hints  that  night 
of  their  little  supper.  The  impresario  had  seen  with  his 
own  unerring  glance  certain  unmistakable  signs  and 
tokens.  There  were  loud  rumours  in  the  Town.  The 
Polish  millionaire  was  near  the  end  of  his  tether.  He 
had  been  in  difficulties  already  when  he  had  formed  his 
connection  with  the  beautiful  mysterious  being  whom 
he  introduced  to  his  friends  vaguely,  as  the  Countess 
Fulvia,  and  thereafter  the  end  was  bound  to  come  with 
vertiginous  rapidity. 

The  man  of  business,  who  never  did  anything  in  a 
hurry  on  principle,  determined  to  bide  his  time.  He  had 
spent  but  a  sunny  golden  September  fortnight  of  delay 
when  the  crash  duly  came.  Here  was  his  moment.  He 
stepped  in,  in  his  genial  way,  to  offer  the  lady  a  more 
promising,  and  not  less  gratifying  mode  of  subsistence. 

As  she  had  already  shown  him,  ''Countess"  Fulvia 


PANTHER'S    CUB  29 

had  found  motherhood  an  effective  pose.  This  day  she 
was  la  mere  eploree,  clasping  her  sturdy  child  to  her  breast, 
arraigning  heaven  with  eyes  alternately  tear-laden  and 
menacing.  She  ran  through  the  complete  series  of  his- 
trionic attitudes  for  the  impresario's  benefit;  all  of  which 
he  surveyed  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur;  and  sensibilities 
utterly  untouched. 

He  was  quite  willing,  however,  to  fall  in  with  her  emotion 
in  furtherance  of  his  own  scheme,  and  spent  some  time 
in  representing  to  her  how  richly  this  maternal  passion 
would  be  rewarded  for  the  hard  work  and  other  sac- 
rifices the  suggested  career  would  entail.  But,  in  a  very 
few  minutes,  he  had  discovered  that  the  fair  one's  instincts 
were  as  commercial  as  his  own;  only  on  different  lines. 

It  was  his  golden  rule,  as  has  been  said,  never  to  mix 
pleasure  and  business.  Her  single  and  simple  maxim 
was  much  the  reverse.  There  ensued  an  explanation  in 
which  the  impresario  very  clearly  expounded  his  invari- 
able method  with  regard  to  the  wares  he  dealt  in  —  stocks 
and  shares  to  him  and  rigidly  nothing  more. 

Upon  this  exposition  the  lady's  face  had  first  become 
distorted  with  fury;  but,  upon  a  second  thought,  she  had 
angelically  smiled,  promising  herself  to  put  this  prag- 
matic resolve  to  the  test,  and  thereupon  accepting  the 
proposed  contract  with  alacrity. 

The  young  Polish  nobleman's  gratitude  to  his  friend 
for  delivering  him  of  his  temporarily  adored  Fulvia  was 
profound ;  but  he  also  had  his  doubts  touching  the  future 
of  the  new  relations.  And  he  thought  it  incumbent 
upon  him  to  drop  a  word  in  season : 

"Beware  of  her,  cher  ami.     Never  hope  to  tame  her. 


30  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Believe  one  who  knows.  It  is  a  panther.  Let  her  but 
get  at  your  throat,  she  will  not  release  you  till  she  has 
sucked  to  the  last  drop  of  your  blood." 

Robecq,  in  his  turn,  had  quite  a  pleasant  smile,  as  he 
walked  away  from  the  little  villa,  pondering  on  his  bar- 
gain —  a  panther  .  .  . !  The  simile  struck  him  as 
apt.  The  most  salient  attribute  of  the  lady  was  her 
feline  grace,  with  the  sense  of  a  crouching  power;  of 
caprice  and  passion;  of  uncertain,  incomprehensible 
motives  behind  all  the  sleek  languor.  Aye  —  she  could 
spring  at  a  man's  throat  —  at  a  man's  heart.  Thes? 
Slavs  had  a  poetic  imagery.  .  .  .  And  drain  his 
blood  —  his  Polish  blood,  no  doubt.  No  doubt,  but 
not  Jean  de  Robecq's  —  not  Jokanahan  Hirsch's. 
He  smiled  again. 

After  vainly  trying  to  induce  Fulvia  to  cede  him  the 
little  Fifi,  Count  Lovinski,  in  gallant  Polish  fashion, 
and  true  to  his  type,  committed  suicide  that  night. 


V 

THE  TRAINING  OF  A  VOICE 

IT  WAS  to  the  celebrated  Madame  Visconti,  in  Paris, 
that  Robecq  confided  his  new  investment  —  Fulvia's  voice. 
But  at  first  it  seemed  as  if,  for  once,  his  perspicacity  had 
failed  him.  The  great  trainer,  after  several  months' 
serious  work,  doubted  if  she  could  ever  make  a  prima 
donna  of  its  owner. 

"My  dear  Robecq,"  she  cried,  candidly,  to  him  one 
day,  "  it's  a  block,  my  friend !  —  Oh,  I'm  not  talking  of 
the  woman,"  as  he  raised  his  eyebrows  —  "I'm  talking 
of  the  singer.  The  voice  is  there,  but  about  as  much 
use  to  her,  to  me,  and  to  you,  as  a  stone!  Marble,  marble! 
I  can  polish  it.  Oh,  I  can  polish  it!  But  squeeze  a  drop 
of  divine  unction  from  it  ?  Never !  —  Never  will  she 
bring  tears  to  any  one's  eyes.  I  can  put  her  in  a  rage, 
a  wild-beast  rage,  easy  enough.  Then  she'll  scream. 
Oh,  she'll  scream !  —  Where  did  you  pick  that  up  ? 
from  what  gutter,  hein?" 

"From  a  most  artistic  little  villa,  at  Biarritz,"  said 
Robecq,  demurely. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Madame  Visconti.  "Well,  put 
her  back  in  a  villa.  That's  all  she's  fit  for.  —  Oh,  I 
know,  I  know."  With  a  pair  of  very  small  brown  hands 
she  waved  away  his  protest.  "She  sang  a  lullaby  after 
supper  and  you  thought,  after  supper !  that  you  had  found 

31 


32  PANTHER'S    CUB 

the  voice  of  the  century.  You  needn't  repeat  the  story 
all  over  again.  Oh,  she's  got  a  voice,  I  grant  you!  Yes, 
it's  as  pure  as  crystal,  as  ringing  as  a  bell.  Oh,  yes,  it's 
got  a  tremendous  range.  She's  an  Australian  born — 
it  says  everything.  You  can  gather  such  voices  like 
berries  from  the  hedgerows  ...  in  Australia.  .  . 
It's  the  soil,  or  the  air,  or  what  not.  They  drop  on  you 
like  the  music  of  caged  larks  from  the  attics  of  Melbourne 
slums.  But  make  a  singer  of  her!  .  .  .  Frankly, 
Robecq,  she  and  I  will  do  no  good." 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend!"  said  Robecq,  and  pleaded  for 
further  probation. 

He  was  not  going  to  be  beaten  so  soon  or  so  easily. 
He  was  not  prepared  to  acknowledge  a  mistake.  He 
remained  some  time  in  Paris;  paid  constant  visits  to  the 
little  apartment  where  Fulvia  was  lodged,  in  unwonted 
simplicity  and  an  almost  continuous  state  of  sulks.  Yet 
the  woman  had  had  awakened  in  her  a  new  and  better 
emotion  than  that  which  the  most  artistic  villa  could  evoke. 
She  had  become  ambitious.  She  wanted  to  succeed,  and 
by  her  own  talent.  At  Madame  Visconti's  she  had 
heard  wondrous  stories  of  the  power  and  opulence,  the 
brilliant  social  position  of  two  or  three  pupils  of  hers, 
now  world-renowned  prime  donne.  She  had  seen  por- 
traits of  Madame  Adelaide,  Emma  Immer,  and  La 
Norma;  and  had  pulled  a  lip  of  disdain  upon  their  cor- 
poreal shortcomings.  Madame  Visconti,  marking  her 
in  the  mocking  contemplation  of  a  signed  photograph 
and  reading  her  thoughts,  had  told  her  pretty  brutally 
that  no  one  minded  the  bird's  shape,  so  it  could 
sing. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  S3 

"But  when  you've  taught  me,"  cried  Fulvia,  arching 
her  beautiful  throat  at  the  mirror  — 

"You'll  do  for  —  oratorio,  my  dear,  perhaps,"  said 
the  teacher  with  a  twinkle  in  her  shrewd  eye  that  had 
galled  Fulvia  to  the  quick. 

Her  humour  was  infamous,  therefore,  when  Robecq 
found  her;  but  she  had  set  her  teeth.  She  was  working. 
She  was  trying  her  best.  Perhaps  it  was  that  she  was 
trying  too  hard;  for,  each  time  she  sang  to  him,  he  told 
himself  it  was  more  "  deplorable." 

One  day,  however,  his  hopes  revived  with  a  spring  — 
he  had  treated  her  to  a  choice  dejeuner  at  Doyen's,  and 
presented  her,  on  the  way  home,  with  a  sable  stole  that 
had  taken  her  fancy  at  Revillon  Freres.  This  was  all 
duly  platonic,  all  in  the  way  of  business.  He  had  told 
himself  that  until  she  was  in  a  better  mood  they  would 
do  nothing  with  her.  "  She  must,"  he  said  sagely,  "  have 
her  detente  des  nerfs."  The  panther  would  have  to  be 
stroked  and  set  a-purring  —  and  then,  perhaps,  the  voice 
would  have  some  chance.  He  accompanied  her  back 
to  the  flat  he  had  taken  for  her  in  the  Rue  Lord  Byron, 
pleased,  in  his  good-natured  way,  with  her  new  content. 

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  dash  into  her  bedroom 
to  survey  the  effect  of  her  furs  in  her  armoire-a-glace. 
Apparently  the  reflection  was  gratifying;  for  she  began 
to  hum  a  song  which  presently  waxed  louder  and  louder 
in  her  joy,  till  even  the  little  sitting  room  rang. 

Robecq,  who  was  lounging  on  the  red-plush  sofa, 
slowly  reared  himself  and  sat  up,  listening  intently. 

She  broke  off  abruptly  on  a  high  note,  and  fell  again 
to  humming  in  a  muffled  way. 


34  PANTHER'S    CUB 

He  rose,  bounced  in  upon  her  without  ceremony,  and 
found  her,  a  hatpin  in  her  mouth,  engaged  in  the  act  of 
removing  her  hat  to  try  the  effect  of  the  fur  on  her  hair. 
She  spat  the  pin  from  her  lips,  and  it  clattered  on  the 
parquet. 

" Oh,  Robecq,"  she  cried,  " if  I  had  a  toque  to  match!" 

"Who  taught  you  to  sing  that  song?"  he  demanded 
disregarding.  His  voice  was  thick  and  agitated.  "You 
never  learnt  that  with  Visconti.  Who  taught  you  that?" 
he  repeated,  almost  fiercely. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Did  you  like  it?" 
she  smiled.  "  It  was  a  fiddler  called  Meyer,  in  Melbourne, 
if  you  want  to  know."  Suddenly  her  eyes  widened 
upon  him.  "What  do  you  want  to  know  for?"  she 
asked. 

"Because  it  is  the  same  fellow,  I'll  swear,  that  taught 
you  the  lullaby,  my  dear.  The  lullaby  that  I  never  could 
get  you  to  sing  again  as  you  did  that  night  at  Biarritz," 
said  the  impresario  slowly.  "  If  we  could  find  this  man, 
he  would  be  worth  his  weight  in  gold,  to  you  and  to  me. 
.  .  .  That's  why  I  want  to  know,  my  dear." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  angry  terror.  She  stooped  to  pick 
up  her  hatpin  and  turned  a  scarlet  face  upon  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  my  room  ?  —  Out  of  it  you 
go." 

"But  what  about  a  toque?  You  tell  me  a  little  more 
about  that  Melbourne  man,  my  dear  friend,  and  then 
we'll  go  and  choose  a  toque."  He  gauged  her  with  a 
keen  glance.  Her  mouth  was  settling  into  lines  of  sullen 
obstinacy  —  "  And  a  muff,"  he  went  on. 

She  frowned,  but  there  was  a  wavering  in  her  eye; 


PANTHER'S    CUB  35 

she  had  been  starved  of  finery  so  long.  All  at  once  she 
had  a  flashing  smile: 

"  But  of  course,  you  silly  old  Robecq,  what  is  there  to 
make  a  mystery  about  ?  Have  I  not  told  you  everything 
about  my  life  already?  You're  rather  a  bore."  She 
yawned  elaborately.  "But  there  was  a  dream  of  a 
muff,  to  go  with  that  stole,  you  know." 

"  Well,  come  and  sit  on  the  sofa,  in  the  salon,"  he  said 
patiently.  Personally  he  preferred  not  to  be  in  her 
bedroom.  "You  will  tell  me  all  you  can  remember 
about  this  Meyer.  He  was  a  fiddler,  you  say?  But 
he  taught  you  to  sing  .  .  .  that  song  and  the  lullaby. 
Now  for  the  lies,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  folded  his  fat 
hands  patiently  between  his  knees. 

But  Robecq  had  the  determination  and  the  scent  of 
the  sleuth-hound.  He  had  sunk  a  great  deal  of  money 
already  in  Fulvia.  He  was  now  preparing  to  sink  more. 
One  of  the  secrets  of  the  builders  of  great  fortunes  is 
perseverance.  He  had  an  intimate  conviction  that  his 
investment  could  yet  be  made  to  pay.  And,  like  a  flash 
of  lightning,  that  snatch  of  song  had  shown  him  the  only 
way. 

Nothing  large  in  life  is  ever  accomplished  without 
imagination,  even  in  so  practical  a  sphere  as  that  of  mere 
money-making. 

"I  shall  find  that  man,"  the  financier  was  saying  to 
himself,  "  if  he  be  in  the  land  of  the  living.  —  My 
luck's  not  going  under,  here.  He  is  alive.  I  shall  find 
him.  If  he  could  teach  her  such  phrasing  once  he  can 
teach  her  again.  Visconti,  my  dear  friend,  you're  a 
clever  woman,  but  you're  not  infallible.  You  have  been 


36  PANTHER'S    CUB 

all  these  months  laboriously  laying  foundations  on  sand. 
Some  one  has  built  before  you  —  aye,  built  on  that  rock, 
that  block,  that  marble.  Some  one  else  has  known  how 
to  make  the  woman  sing  —  anomaly  of  stone  and  panther 
as  she  is." 

Meanwhile  "the  lies"  were  proceeding.  Some  were, 
indeed,  already  familiar  to  Robecq.  He  had  heard  about 
the  rich  home  in  Australia,  the  millionaire  husband  who 
had  married  the  beautiful  heiress  whilst  still  almost  in 
her  childhood ;  the  financial  crisis  and  the  suicide  of  this 
individual  a  few  weeks  after  the  birth  of  little  Virginia, 
throwing  the  lovely  young  widow,  helpless  and  penniless 
upon  a  cruel  world.  The  details  varied  slightly  on  each 
occasion.  Fulvia  was  not  a  woman  of  much  imagination, 
and  her  romancing  was  on  the  whole  clumsy.  Her  own 
family  had  had  necessarily  to  be  swept  away,  as  an  after- 
thought. She  had  once  suggested  yellow  fever;  but  on 
finding  that  it  was  not  an  Australian  complaint,  fell  back 
on  shipwreck  in  the  Pacific  as  a  wholesale  method  of 
destruction. 

One  of  her  infirmities  as  a  story-teller,  was  her  inability 
to  remember  the  names  originally  bestowed  upon  the 
actors  in  this  dramatic  past.  Now  her  patronymic  would 
be  Mordaunt,  now  Delaval. 

The  individual  who  had  committed  suicide  had  also 
a  variegated  nomenclature;  but  as  she  had  from  the 
beginning  determined  to  be  known  in  Paris  as  Countess 
Fulvia  Lovinska  —  widow  of  the  owner  of  that  little 
Biarritz  villa  —  she  did  not  find  herself  personally  incon- 
venienced by  these  discrepancies.  Robecq  had  acquiesced 
with  tolerance,  and  not  without  amusement,  in  this  post- 


PANTHER'S    CUB  37 

mortem  adoption.     "  She'll  stick  to  that,  that's  one  com- 
fort." 

Now,  as  he  sat  listening,  he  had  however  a  sharp 
attention  for  each  fresh  mis-statement;  waiting  for  the 
moment  to  put  the  question  which  would  entrap  her 
into  something  approaching  the  truth. 

And,  finally,  he  obtained  one  grain  of  fact  in  the  middle 
of  all  the  chaff.  A  meagre  harvest,  it  would  seem,  yet 
sufficient  for  one  who  could,  where  business  was  con- 
cerned, unite  so  much  doggedness  with  such  abnormal 
penetration.  After  learning  some  poignant  details  of 
the  demise  of  Count  Lovinski's  predecessor,  he  was 
informed  that  the  widow  had  been  obliged  to  make  use 
of  her  voice  to  support  herself  and  her  babe.  He  saw 
his  opportunity  and  planted  his  inquiry  in  his  slow, 
amiable  voice: 

"So  it  was  then,  dear  friend,  that  Mr.  Meyer  taught 
you  ? "  Her  narrow  eye  had  a  sudden  wary  contraction 
of  the  pupils. 

"Yes,  it  was  then,"  she  admitted,  defiantly.  "He 
was  struck  by  my  voice.  He  was  a  celebrated  singing 
master  ...  in  Melbourne,"  she  added  dreamily. 

"I  thought  you  mentioned  that  he  was  a  fiddler," 
pursued  Robecq,  drawing  out  his  cigar  case,  to  emphasize 
the  carelessness  of  the  remark. 

"He  was,"  she  snapped.  "He  began  as  a  fiddler, 
in  the  Opera  —  "  she  broke  off  abruptly ;  and  the  furtive 
frightened  gleam  came  back  to  her  glance,  and  revealed 
a  slip  of  the  tongue. 

That  was  the  grain.  He  lit  his  cigar  and  puffed  at  it, 
with  all  the  appearance  of  his  usual  satisfaction.  She 


38  PANTHER'S    CUB      * 

had  fallen  into  silence.  But  by  the  fluttering  dilation  of 
her  nostrils,  the  restless  beating  of  one  foot,  the  changing 
colour  on  her  cheek,  he  judged  that  she  was  on  the  verge 
of  one  of  those  outbreaks  which  as  a  rule  were  the  signal 
lor  his  flight,  but  which,  to-day,  he  welcomed  as  a  likely 
source  of  further  self-betrayal. 

"It  was  Mr.  Meyer  who  taught  you  also  that  song, 
Tsvhich  you  sang  so  divinely,  the  first  night  we  ever  met, 
dear  friend  ?  " 

"  And  if  it  were  ?  —  What  is  it  to  you,  Robecq  ?  What 
maggot  have  you  got  into  your  head  about  this  man  ?  — 
He's  dead,  I  tell  you.  He's  dead!" 

Suddenly  she  screamed.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
stood,  threatening  his  placid  sitting  presence  like  an 
embodiment  of  storm.  "You  don't  believe  me?  Go 
and  see  for  yourself  in  the  churchyard  of  Melbourne. 
Have  I  not  left  wreaths  on  his  grave?  Did  I  not  pay 
for  the  tombstone  myself?  'Sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Friedrich  Meyer.'  Poor  old  Fritz!"  She  broke  into  a 
passion  of  sobs. 


VI 

FRIEDRICH  MEYER 

WHEN  Jean  de  Robecq  had  reached  a  safe  distance 
down  the  Champs-Elyse'es,  he  sat  him  down  on  a  bench 
and  proceeded  to  make  the  following  notes  in  his  pocket- 
book:  "F.  M.  Violin  in  the  Melbourne  Orchestra, 
King's  Theatre.  Some  date  subsequent  to  1892  when 
Brahms's  Veilchen  was  first  published."  He  sat  awhile, 
pondering. 

This  gave  him  comparatively  short  limits  for  his  investi- 
gation. Friedrich  Meyer  was  alive  as  far  as  Fulvia 
knew  and  Fulvia,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  was  in  abject 
terror  of  ever  meeting  him  again.  On  this  point  his 
recent  interview  had  sufficed  to  convince  him. 

"  The  first  of  the  lot,  no  doubt,"  he  commented  cynically. 
"  He  beat  her,  perhaps." 

Upon  this  reflection,  he  rose  and  pursued  his  way  to 
the  Rue  Matignon  Post  Office,  where  he  indited  a  lengthy 
cable  to  the  conductor  of  the  Melbourne  Orchestra. 

ReVillon  Freres,  the  noted  furriers,  received  his  next 
visit  —  and  were  gratified  by  the  order  to  submit  a  selec- 
tion of  toques  and  muffs  "to  the  Comtesse  Lovinska"; 
her  choice  made,  the  account  to  be  sent  to  M.  de  Robecq 
for  immediate  acquittal. 

When  he  reentered  the  Hotel  du  Rhin  and  let  himself 
sink  into  the  most  comfortable  chair  in  the  lounge,  with 

39 


40  PANTHER'S   CUB 

the  soothing  Green  Chartreuse  by  his  side,  he  calculated 
the  expenses  of  the  day  with  full  consciousness  of  their 
heavy  character,  yet  an  agreeable  conviction  that  they 
were  promotion  money  wisely  laid  out. 

The  next  morning  he  received  the  expected  cable  reply : 
Friedrich  Meyer  had  not  been  in  the  Melbourne  Orches- 
tra, to  the  knowledge  of  its  present  chief,  who  was  of 
recent  appointment.  But  Robecq's  name  was  already  a 
power,  and  investigation  was  promised. 

These  investigations,  however,  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
only  disclosed  through  a  second  cable  message  that  one 
Meyer  who  had  been  first  violin,  had  left  the  town  some 
five  years  previously.  But  Robecq  had  the  end  of  the 
thread  in  his  fat  fingers;  and  patiently,  relentlessly,  he 
followed  it  up.  The  conductor  of  the  Melbourne  Orches- 
tra supplemented  his  second  cable  by  a  letter. 

Robecq  was  at  Homburg  when  it  reached  him. 

Anxious  as  his  informant  had  been  to  please  the  great 
impresario,  the  circumstances  had  rendered  all  informa- 
tion concerning  Meyer  very  difficult  to  obtain.  There 
had  been  some  five  years  previous  great  dispute  between 
the  Opera  Syndicate  and  the  then  orchestral  chief,  which 
had  led  to  the  latter's  resignation  and  the  practical  break- 
ing up  of  the  whole  band.  At  the  time  of  writing  only 
First  Flute,  a  Frenchman,  remained  of  the  old  musical 
company.  He  knew  very  little  of  First  Violin,  his  whilom 
comrade,  beyond  the  fact  that  Meyer  was  then  about 
forty,  and  an  able  artist,  and  that  he  had  once  heard  him 
say  he  would  stick  to  his  conductor.  The  latter,  one 
Manuel  Zorilla,  had  left  Melbourne  for  Europe. 

Robecq  had  gone  out  with  his  morning  letters.     It 


PANTHER'S    CUB  41 

was  his  habit  to  read  them  under  the  trees  between  his 
first  and  second  glass  of  water.  It  took  him  scarce  thirty- 
six  paces  to  make  up  his  mind. 

Meyer  was  forty  and  a  first  violin.  He  was  not  likely 
to  be  found  in  another  breadwinning  capacity  at  forty-five. 
Wherever  he  was,  his  work  was  in  an  orchestra.  Meyer 
was  a  German  and  must  have  the  Teutonic  tenacity  of 
disposition.  He  had  announced  his  intention  of  sticking 
to  his  chief.  If  this  Manuel  Zorilla  was  anywhere  still 
waving  the  baton,  Meyer  in  all  probability  was  sitting 
under  it  of  nights. 

Robecq  drank  glass  number  two  with  his  usual  delibera- 
tion and  sauntered  to  the  Post  Office,  whence  he  sent  a 
telegram  to  a  well-known  Paris  firm  of  private  investiga- 
tors, requesting  them  to  find  the  whereabouts  of  Manuel 
Zorilla,  chef  d'orcJiestre  whilom  of  Melbourne. 

Ten  days  later,  Meyer  and  Robecq  stood  face  to  face, 
in  London.  Zorilla,  alas  for  deceived  ambitions!  was 
conducting  the  jingle  of  one  of  London's  half-dozen 
musical  comedies,  and  Meyer  was  his  first  violin. 

In  after  days  Robecq  was  often  wont  to  say  that,  from 
the  first  moment,  he  had  liked  "old  Fritz."  "Moreover, 
I  recognized,  sir,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  beings  that 
I  had  ever  met,"  he  would  say,  emphasizing  certain 
syllables  after  his  acquired  transatlantic  fashion.  "A 
genius,  my  dear  friend,  not  an  executant  so  much,  but 
.  .  .  Have  you  noticed  old  Fritz's  eye  ?  Sir,  it's  the 
eye  of  the  born  trainer.  .  .  ." 

The  pity  of  it  was,  of  course,  that,  being  sought  out 
in  this  manner  by  the  most  famous  musical  agent  of  tb* 


42  PANTHER'S    CUB 

day,  the  struggling  artist  had  naturally  built  some  hope 
of  personal  advancement  and  recognition  which  had  to 
be  instantly  shattered.  Robecq  had  averted  his  glance 
while  he  had  given  the  musician  clearly  to  understand 
that  his  proposal  to  him  was  in  no  way  connected  with  his 
present  craft ;  and  Meyer  had  grown  from  red  to  white  very 
rapidly  under  the  blow.  This,  Robecq  ascertained  when 
on  his  own  next  remark  he  looked  curiously  back  at  him. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  "that  once  you  gave  singing 
lessons  ?  Did  you  not,  Mr.  Meyer  ?  At  least,  it  is  with 
reference  to  a  whilom  pupil  of  yours  that  I  have  requested 
this  interview.  A  young  lady  called  Fulvia." 

"If  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Meyer,  in  his  simple  German 
way,  "  I  have  never  known  any  young  lady  called  Fulvia. 
I  have  never  been  a  singing  master.  There  is  some 
mistake.  I  have  the  honour  to  salute  you." 

And  he  dived  for  his  shabby  hat. 

A  moment  Robecq  saw  his  edifice  crumble  before  the 
mental  eye.  Was  it  all  erected  on  Fulvia's  lies?  He 
called  desperately  after  the  solid  retreating  back :  "  Wait 
a  minute,  wait  a  minute!  It  was  in  Melbourne.  Did 
you  ever  teach  anybody  to  sing:  " Herz,  mein  Herz?" 
He  hummed  in  his  voix  de  tete. 

The  great  figure  stopped  suddenly,  without  turning 
round. 

"Or,"  cried  Robecq,  marking  his  advantage,  "this 
Wiegen\ied:'Schlaf,Kindchen'.  .  .  ." 

Very  slowly  the  violinist  turned  and  came  back.  His 
countenance  had  grown  darkly  red  again.  He  did  not 
speak  till  he  was  quite  close. 

"There  was  in  Melbourne  a  poor  child     .     .     ."  he 


PANTHER'S    CUB  43 

began  huskily;  and  then  broke  off  as  if  his  trembling  lips 
could  be  trusted  no  further. 

Robecq,  in  his  secret  triumph,  spoke  volubly  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  falling  unconsciously  into  the  language  of  his 
hearer. 

"This  poor  child,  lieber  freund,  is  now  a  very  charming 
woman.  The  widow,  I  believe,  of  a  Polish  Count.  She 
is  the  Countess  Fulvia  Lovinska.  She  wants  to  study 
music  professionally.  She's  got  a  divine  voice,  as  you 
know,  bester  Herr  Meyer.  But  .  .  .  well  now,  the 
matter  is  just  this:  Madame  Visconti,  you've  heard  of 
course  of  the  great  teacher?  Well,  she  has  been  trying 
to  train  her.  She  can  make  nothing  of  her,  nix  —  gar 
nix.  But  you,  Mr.  Meyer,  you  taught  her,  you  somehow 
managed  to  teach  her.  I  want  you  to  do  it  again,  for  I 
believe  in  her  career." 

While  he  was  speaking,  his  acute  mind  was  working 
at  express  speed.  "Forty-five?  Nonsense,  the  man 
looked  sixty!  His  great  bush  of  hair  was  already  white. 
It  was  impossible  to  associate  any  thought  of  love  between 
this  almost  venerable,  this  —  despite  his  shabby  garb, 
dignified  —  being,  and  ' cette  superbe  canaille,  la  Fulvia' I" 
—  thus  the  impresario  classed  her.  Her  lover?  The 
first  of  the  lot?  .  .  .  One  never  could  tell.  Here, 
so  far  as  he  could  judge,  was  an  honest  Teuton,  with  the 
stern  principles  and  morality  of  his  race.  No  Lothario, 
certainly,  in  the  past  any  more  than  in  the  present  — 
Robecq  would  be  shot  for  that!  The  very  phrase  "A 
poor  child  .  .  ."  wrung  as  it  was  from  an  undoubted 
anguish,  revealed  pity,  not  remorse.  But  if  not  lover, 
what  then  ?  Father,  perhaps 


44  PANTHER'S    CUB 

For  a  moment  he  juggled  with  the  thought  that  here 
was  Fulvia's  father  in  the  flesh.  But,  on  reflection,  the 
absence  of  any  trace  of  German  accent  or  idiom  in  her 
speech,  or  the  faintest  shadow  of  German  type  in  her 
appearance,  much  less  any  resemblance  to  the  strong 
personality  before  him,  made  him  dismiss  the  conjecture. 

But  if  not  lover  or  father  —  what  ? 

An  odd  thought  struck  the  Jew.  He  measured  the 
burly  figure  of  the  musician  doubtfully.  That  would  be 
an  inconvenient  complication  —  so  inconvenient,  indeed, 
that  he  instantly  drove  the  possibility  of  it  from  his  mind. 
Why  seek  to  probe  ?  Here  was  a  case  where  the  less 
he  knew,  the  freer  he  would  be  to  act.  He  would  know 
nothing. 

"She  is  a  widow,  then,"  said  the  musician  suddenly. 
He  spoke  still  in  his  painstaking  English,  and  with  a 
quietness  which  made  the  listener  draw  a  breath  of 
relief.  He  was  leaning  with  his  great  flexible  hand 
on  the  table,  on  the  other  side  of  which  sat  Robecq 
with  his  inevitable  cigar.  And  the  table  shook  with 
the  pressure  —  but  otherwise  there  was  no  sign  of 
emotion ! 

"Yes,"  drawled  Robecq,  not  without  some  sense  of 
the  humour  of  his  tale,  though  it  was  marred  for  him 
by  the  fact  that  his  companion  obviously  could  not  enjoy 
it  too,  "she  has  been  very  unfortunate.  She  has  been 
widowed  at  least  once  before.  Her  first  husband  com- 
mitted suicide,  she  tells  me  —  and  so  oddly  enough  did 
Count  Lovinski." 

"So!"  said  the  German.  He  seemed  all  at  once  to 
become  aware  of  the  shaking  table;  and,  removing  his 


PANTHER'S    CUB  45 

hands,  he  let  himself  fall  into  a  chair.  "Is  she  now  .  .  . 
alone?"  he  asked,  slowly  and  heavily. 

"If  you  mean,  without  a  husband,  yes,  for  the  moment," 

assented  Robecq.  "  She  and  her  little  girl "  he  paused 

suddenly  and  looked  in  alarm  at  Meyer.  It  was  almost 
as  if  the  latter  had  called  out.  But  there  had  been  neither 
sound  nor  movement  from  the  listener;  and  Robecq  sat 
a  moment  or  two  staring  as  if  he  found  it  difficult  to  take 
up  the  thread  of  his  discourse  again. 

It  was  the  violinist  who  brought  him  back  to  the 
subject. 

"If  you  will  kindly  explain  your  desire  with  me,"  he 
requested  in  his  formal  English. 

Robecq  laid  his  cigar  on  the  table  and  made  his  desires 
clear,  again  launching  forth  in  Viennese  German  of  the 
most  fluent  and  persuasive  description.  He  begged  his 
best  Mr.  Meyer  to  listen  patiently  and  not  regard  him  as 
a  lunatic.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  wanted  him  to  under- 
take the  musical  education  of  the  Countess  Fulvia  Lovin- 
ska  —  he  could  not  help  rolling  out  this  title  with  a  twinkle 
that  verged  on  the  wink,  but  he  might  as  well  have  winked 
at  a  granite  rock  as  at  the  massive,  set  countenance  bent 
to  listen.  He  waited  for  the  protest  to  his  preposterous 
scheme.  But  as  none  came,  he  glibly  proceeded  to  develop 
it. 

"I  want  you  to  give  up  your  post  here.  I  want  you  to 
train  this  young  lady  for  the  Operatic  Stage  —  under 
my  guidance.  It  shall  be  made  worth  your  while.  I  feel 
convinced  that  you  alone  can  do  what  I  require  and  that 
there  will  be  a  future  for  yourself  in  the  business  not  less 
honourable  and  certainly  more  lucrative  than  anything 


46  PANTHER'S    CUB 

your  present  employment  is  likely  to  afford  you  —  if 
you  succeed.  If  you  don't  succeed  I  pledge  myself  to 
find  you  another  post " 

Meyer  lifted  his  hand.  It  was  a  slight  gesture,  but 
sufficient  to  make  the  flow  of  words  stop  abruptly. 

"That  will  not  be  the  question.  I  must  think,"  said 
the  German. 

He  bent  his  great  head.  Robecq  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  relit  his  Havana.  He  was  satisfied  with  the 
march  of  negotiations.  The  violinist  had  made  no  demur, 
not  even  a  modest  disclaimer  of  his  alleged  capacity  and 
power.  It  seemed  to  be  merely  a  matter  of  consent. 
Robecq  was  convinced  by  the  man's  very  air  of  absorbing 
reflection  that  the  consent  would  come. 

It  was  to  come,  but  after  a  stipulation  which,  shrewd 
as  he  was,  the  impresario  had  not  anticipated. 

Mr.  Meyer  rose. 

"I  must  see  her  first,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  finality. 
"Then  I  will  let  you  know." 

Momentary   consternation   overwhelmed   Robecq. 

"What  would  be  the  good  of  that?"  he  asked,  testily. 
"She  has  neither  the  power,  nor  the  intelligence,  to  make 
terms  with  you.  Her  voice  is  mine.  I  have  paid  good 
money  down  for  it  already,  and  she's  only  got  to  do  what 
I  tell  her." 

Meyer  waited  patiently  till  the  protest  was  concluded 
—  in  moments  of  emotion  Robecq's  drawl  became  accen- 
tuated —  then  he  repeated : 

"I  must  see  her  first.  If  you  will  kindly  give  me  the 
address." 

The  sitting  man  flashed  up  an  acute  glance  at  the  stand- 


PANTHER'S    CUB  47 

ing  man;  puffed  out  two  fierce  volumes  of  smoke,  and 
without  more  ado  produced  his  pocketbook  and  wrote 
Fulvia's  address  on  his  own  card,  with  the  added  memo- 
randum, "Claridge's  Hotel,  four  o'clock,  Friday,  10th." 
It  was  then  Tuesday,  the  7th. 

"It  gives  you  ample  time,"  he  remarked  deliberately, 
as  the  musician  read  with  his  air  of  grave  absorption. 
The  latter  nodded;  put  the  card  into  a  rubbed  pocket- 
book  of  his  own,  bowed  and  took  his  departure  —  all 
without  a  word. 

Robecq  looked  after  him  exultantly.  A  sense  of 
xhilaration  foreign  to  his  balanced  nature  had  taken 
possession  of  him. 

"I  have  found  my  man,"  he  announced  aloud  to  the 
Hotel  sitting  room.  The  exclamation  represented  a 
more  comprehensive  content  in  the  discovery  than  the 
mere  running  down  of  his  quarry. 

At  four  o'clock  on  Friday,  the  tenth,  Meyer  returned 
exact  to  the  rendezvous.  As  he  entered  the  room,  Robecq 
watched  him  anxiously;  it  struck  him  that  the  musician 
looked  even  older,  grayer  in  the  face,  that  his  massive 
height  was  even  more  bowed. 

"Has  the  Panther  mauled  him  too  much?"  he  asked 
himself.  What  had  happened  at  that  interview  in  Paris 
the  impresario  was  never  to  know.  But,  even  as  his 
glance  met  that  of  Friedrich  Meyer,  he  received  assurance 
of  one  fact  at  least  —  and  his  disquieting  thoughts  took 
flight:  these  were  the  eyes  of  the  tamer. 

Meyer  disregarded  the  outstretched  hand,  the  smile 
of  genial  welcome,  which  were  here  offered  to  him. 


48  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"I  will  undertake  what  you  ask,"  he  said  without  any 
preamble.  "But  I  have  conditions." 

"My  dear  friend  .  .  .!"  gushed  the  other,  ready 
with  his  assurance;  "my  dear  friend,  sit  down.  That 
will  be  no  difficulty  between  us." 

"I  will  stand,  thank  you.     A  few  words  will  suffice." 

Then  the  few  words  were  spoken.  Meyer  demanded 
complete  personal  independence;  he  preferred  a  solitary 
life.  He  would  never  consent  to  share  roof  or  board 
with  either  employer  or  pupil.  He  next  fixed  his  own 
salary.  It  was  what  he  received  in  the  orchestra. 

Robecq  checked  the  disclaimer  that  rose  instinctively 
and  generously  to  his  lips.  His  inquisitive  eye  pondered 
upon  the  strange  being,  but  his  acumen  told  him  he  must 
take  the  man  on  his  own  terms  or  not  at  all. 

The  last  condition  was  as  simple  and  as  surprising  as 
the  rest:  there  was  to  be  no  contract  on  one  side  or  the 
other. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Madame  Visconti's  prophecy 
proved  false;  and  that  in  due  course,  Fulvia  was  revealed 
to  the  world  a  great  singer. 

It  was  Robecq  who  devised  a  stage  name  for  her,  with 
a  malicious  remembrance  of  the  voice-trainer's  obloquy 
—  "a  block,  a  stone  —  marble,  marble!"  Before  the 
laurel  wreaths  of  Fulvia  la  Marmora,  the  doubtful  coronet 
of  Comtesse  Lovinska  faded  into  the  background. 


VII 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  A  STAR 

VIRGINIA  could  just  remember  the  Biarritz  Villa  and 
its  happy  days  of  luxury  and  petting. 

She  believed  herself  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Count,  whose  name  she  bore  with  pride,  and  whose 
image  she  cherished  sentimentally.  The  subsequent 
interregnum  in  Paris  was  chiefly  associated  with  mem- 
ories of  extreme  discomfort,  broken  by  a  few  delirious 
interludes  of  maternal  adoration  and  spoiling.  It  was 
then  Elisa  had  first  appeared  upon  the  scene.  Instead 
of  being  made  much  of  and  brought  forward  on  every 
possible  occasion,  instead  of  being  attired  like  a  baby 
princess  and  addressed  as  mignonne,  little  Fifi  seemed 
nearly  always  to  be  in  everybody's  way,  only  noticed  to  be 
scolded  and  slapped.  The  neglected  child  used  to  be 
very  cold  sometimes,  hungry  even;  all  her  pretty  clothes 
had  gone  the  way  of  the  sunny  nursery,  of  the  carriage,  of 
the  kind  "papa"  and  the  big  dog. 

Then  there  came  another  great  change.  Mama  grew 
rich  and  happy  again ;  and  Elisa  shook  and  abused  her  no 
longer,  for  there  was  one  who  had  found  her  in  the  act,  who 
had  thereupon  roared  like  a  lion,  and  had,  as  Elisa  herself 
averred,  all  but  flung  her  out  of  the  third-floor  window. 

Fritz  —  old  Fritz  —  had  come  into  the  child's  life;  and 
from  that  moment,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  for  the  daugh- 

49 


50  PANTHER'S    CUB 

ter  of  a  prima  donna  whose  fame  was  ever  rising,  little 
Fifi,  whose  official  name  was  still  Virginia  Lovinska,  led 
the  well-regulated  existence  of  any  ordinary,  respectable, 
middle-class  child.  She  forgot  equally  the  taste  of  cham- 
pagne and  the  sting  of  a  blow;  had  bread  and  milk  for 
supper,  went  daily  to  "the  good  sisters"  to  be  taught 
things  that  bored  her  exceedingly. 

It  was  when  she  was  eleven  that  her  mama  went  away 
for  her  first  great  American  engagement;  and  then  also 
it  was  that  Fifi  made  acquaintance  with  her  first  boarding 
school.  She  was  to  grow  very  familiar  with  such  estab- 
lishments as  years  went  on.  For,  with  an  irregular  inter- 
val of  holidays,  her  girlhood  was  passed  at  various  pen- 
sionnats.  She  was  a  year  at  Versailles,  under  the  charge 
of  two  Church  of  England  ladies;  three  years  at  a  very 
dowdy  little  parsonage  in  Germany,  guarded  and  drilled 
by  the  Frau  Pastorin.  It  was  after  a  memorable  summer 
visit  to  her  mother  at  Lausanne  that  Fritz  had  himself 
brought  her  to  Madame  Aubert's  select  Seminary  in 
Geneva,  which  was  conducted  on  mitigated  Calvinistic 
principles.  Past  seventeen  then,  she  had  been  kept 
there  for  over  three  years,  though  older  than  any  girl  in  the 
school.  During  this  time  she  had  not  seen  her  mother 
at  all.  Fritz  it  was,  who  had  taken  her  away  for  the 
holidays,  and  though  she  was  fond  of  the  old  man,  these 
holidays  had  seemed  scarcely  less  dull  than  school  itself; 
and  Fritz's  constant  little  homilies  nearly  as  unendurable 
as  Madame  Aubert's  lectures.  She  hated  the  state  of 
tutelage  with  a  hatred  that  grew  more  rebellious  hour  by 
hour.  When  the  summons  came,  it  was  like  the  open- 
ing of  prison  gates. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  51 

"Don't  you  think  for  an  instant,"  said  the  girl  to  Miss 
Smithson,  as  the  train  steamed  out  of  the  station  in  Ge- 
neva, "that  I  shall  ever  come  back  to  this  horrible  place  — 
I'd  run  away  rather.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  never 
did!" 

"Oh,  my  dear "  said  Miss  Smithson. 

Virginia  sat  reflecting.  Fritz  was  at  Carlsbad,  ill;  he 
wrote  a  regular  weekly  letter  to  her,  in  German;  he  was 
very  anxious  that  she  should  keep  up  her  German  — 
these  letters  invariably  began  Mein  liebes  Kind,  "my 
dear  child,"  and  ended  with  Gruss  vom  alien  Fritz, 
"greetings  from  old  Fritz."  They  were  very  simple 
documents  with  brief  chronicles  of  La  Marmora's  and 
his  own  doings,  and  always  a  little  advice  about  herself. 
The  girl  had  accepted  him  into  her  life  as  unquestioningly 
as  she  had  accepted  her  mother's  fame,  and  the  Baron's 
control  of  their  existence.  But  to-day  she  asked  herself 
by  what  right  old  Fritz  had  assumed  this  tutorship  of  her- 
self. He  was  at  Carlsbad,  for  once  out  of  the  way,  and 
her  mother  from  Vienna  had  bidden  her  to  her  side.  This 
she  told  herself  was  no  coincidence.  She  had  always 
had  a  singular  idea  that  it  was  Fritz's  fault  that  the  beau- 
tiful, wonderful  being,  who  had,  on  occasion,  such  treas- 
ures of  maternal  love  for  her,  should  ever  have  consented 
to  so  long  and  terrible  a  separation.  Fritz  had  ridicu- 
lous notions  that  theatres  and  theatrical  society  were 
not  good  for  little  girls  —  and  Fritz  would  continue  to 
treat  her  as  a  little  girl,  in  spite  of  all  her  protestations. 
Twice  she  had  seen  her  mother  weep  passionately  at 
parting. 

In  most  such  young  hearts  the  memory  of  a  mother's 


52  PANTHER'S    CUB 

kisses, of  a  mother's  tears,  is  sufficient  to  sweep  away  any 
recollection  of  a  mother's  ill-treatment.  Parents  talk 
very  sagely  of  making  allowances  for  their  children;  one 
may  wonder  if  they  realize  what  constant  allowance  chil- 
dren have  to  make  for  them;  how  generously,  how  com- 
pletely, it  is  made  in  most  cases.  Never  more  generously  or 
completely  than  as  by  such  a  nature  as  Virginia's,  to  which 
rancour  was  unknown.  It  was  with  unmitigated  happi- 
ness, therefore,  that  she  prepared  to  meet  her  mother  — 
with  a  sanguine  confidence  in  the  maternal  affection,  and 
a  buoyant  determination  that  now  was  her  moment  in 
Fritz's  absence  to  insure  herself  against  further  separation. 

If  Fritz,  by  the  mere  virtue  of  his  Repetitor's  office, 
could  make  himself  so  indispensable  to  her  mother,  that 
he  could  impose  his  old-fashioned  notions  upon  her, 
could  not  she,  the  only  child,  make  herself  indispensable, 
too  ?  —  more  indispensable  ?  She  would  be  everything, 
daughter,  friend,  slave,  she  would  wind  herself  into  the 
mother-heart,  that  they  should  never  be  torn  apart  again. 

As  she  ran  down  the  hotel  corridor,  leaving  Elisa  far 
behind,  the  girl's  whole  being  was  possessed  by  the 
single  sense  of  filial  love. 

"Is  it  my  child?"  cried  the  well-remembered  voice 
from  the  scented  depths  of  a  dim  room. 

Virginia  had  no  reply  but  tears  as  she  flung  herself  on 
the  bed.  When  she  found  that  her  mother  wept  too,  as 
she  clasped  her,  the  girl  could  have  died  in  an  ecstasy  of 
tenderness,  gratitude  and  joy. 

"Pull  the  blinds,  Elisa,"  ordered  the  singer  after  the 
long  embrace  had  exhausted  itself,  "that  I  may  see  my 
child!" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  53 

It  was  when  the  order  was  obeyed  that  the  first  little 
cloud  began  to  gather  on  Virginia's  radiant  horizon. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  La  Marmora.  "How  long 
are  you,  in  the  name  of  heaven?  Stand  up!  Au  nom 
du  del,  Elisa,  it  is  a  grenadier  —  an  Amazon!" 

How  was  it  possible  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
grow  like  that  ?  Virginia's  anxious  conscience  demanded. 
She  stood  blushing  and  guilty;  the  tears  of  joy  still  stand- 
ing on  her  cheek.  But  the  narrow  green  eyes  that  sur- 
veyed her,  if  not  approving,  were  not  unkind.  Good- 
humour  still  held  the  Panther.  A  laugh  shook  the  lovely 
lazy  being  in  the  bed. 

"Madame  Aubert  takes  her  ideas  of  fashion  from 

Noah's  Ark!  Elisa "  she  broke  into  her  fluent 

Boulevard  French  —  "is  it  possible  for  a  human  being 
to  be  fagotted  like  that?  She  really  isn't  so  bad,  poor 
child!"  Virginia  began  to  hope  again.  "We  can  dress 
her,  we  can  advantage  her  —  if  only  she  were  not  such 
a  maypole." 

For  two  days  the  Marmora  devoted  herself  with  energy 
and  enthusiasm  to  the  clothing  of  the  pole  in  question. 
Virginia  was  taken  to  tailor,  dressmaker,  milliner,  and, 
in  each  case,  the  long  consultation  that  ensued  was  pre- 
ceded by  the  formula: 

"I  want  something  young,  young,  young,  you  under- 
stand. My  daughter  has  the  misfortune  to  be  too  tall  — 
altogether  too  tall  for  her  age.  I  want  something  — 
something  noch  ganz  Backfisch  for  a  young  girl  not  yet  out 
in  society." 

Virginia,  standing  ashamed  of  her  inches  and  her  school 
clothes,  ashamed  too,  that  her  mother  should  forget,  or 


54  PANTHER'S    CUB 

pretend  to  forget,  that  she  was  already  past  twenty,  the 
age  of  womanhood,  would  crimson  and  hang  her  head  — 
looking  the  awkward  Backfisch  to  the  life. 

Madame  la  Marmora  was  exceedingly  particular  about 
the  carrying  out  of  her  own  ideas;  and  these  consulta- 
tions occupied  a  great  deal  of  time  and  thought;  but  the 
result  in  the  end  was  extraordinarily  convincing.  Vir- 
ginia, her  hair  parted  and  tied  in  a  Cadogan  plait,  with 
artfully  cut  garments,  the  simple  lines  of  which  gave 
value  to  the  slimness,  but  concealed  the  delicate  ripeness 
of  her  youth,  with  shapely  feet  exposed  in  the  smartest 
of  buckle  shoes;  with  her  own  unconquerable  blushes 
and  smiles,  timidity  and  boldness,  appeared  what  she 
was  meant  to  do:  an  overgrown,  adorable  child.  Mad- 
ame la  Marmora's  maternal  sentiments  thereupon  knew 
once  again  so  warm  a  recrudescence  that  her  daughter 
could  not  commit  the  disloyalty  of  a  thought  of  criticism. 


VIII 
DESMOND  BROOKE 

EXCEPT  for  one  brief  spell  of  emancipation,  some 
three  years  ago  at  Lausanne,  Virginia  Lovinska  had 
known  no  taste  of  social  life  since  her  remote  childhood. 
Singular  memories  awoke  within  her,  as  she  followed 
her  mother  into  the  restaurant  on  the  day  of  the  Baron's 
dejeuner.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the  .place,  the  smell 
of  the  cigars,  food  and  flowers,  of  wine  and  coffee, 
recalled  scenes  of  those  early  Paris  days  before  Fritz, 
the  Herr  Repetitor,  had  entered  upon  her  life  with 
his  stern  solicitude.  (Virginia  never  voluntarily 
admitted  an  unkind  thought,  but  she  could  not  feel 
sorry  for  the  gout  that  kept  Fritz  a  prisoner  away 
from  them.) 

Yet,  reminiscent  of  those  wilder  pre-Fritzian  times  as 
this  morning's  experience  seemed,  the  girl  was  conscious  of 
a  difference;  not  only  in  her  mother,  but  in  her  mother's 
guests;  even  in  the  Baron's  manners.  She  realized  that 
she  had  become  the  daughter  of  a  personage;  that  this 
exquisitely  attired,  rather  languid  and  low-voiced  being, 
would  not  to-day  tear  off  her  hat  and  thrust  the  flowers 
from  the  table  decoration  into  her  hair;  that  she 
would  not  sing  the  menu  card  in  a  high  recitative  to 
an  admiring,  applauding  circle;  that  neither  of 
the  two  grand  English  gentlemen  would  call  her 

55 


56  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"adorable,"  or  "goddess,"  would  clink  glasses  with 
her  or  hold  her  hands  across  the  table;  that  Robecq  — 
yet  so  much  the  same  Robecq  as  ever  —  would  not 
puff  cigar  smoke  into  their  faces  or  take  the  almonds 
from  her  mother's  very  fingers  as  roughly  as  if  she  were  a 
disobedient  child. 

To-day  all  was,  indeed,  very  different.  All  was  decor- 
ous to  dulness;  hardly  a  word  spoken  above  its  fellow, 
hardly  even  a  laugh.  Yet  there  was  something  in  the  air 
of  the  place  that  seemed  to  get  intoxicatingly  into  Fifi's 
blood.  Perhaps  it  was  the  air  of  Vienna  itself;  the  sun- 
shine, the  spring  flowers.  She  was  not  given  to  analysis, 
but  she  knew  herself  singularly  happy  that  morning. 
During  the  whole  of  the  Baron's  entertainment,  the  only 
approach  to  excitement  was  provided  by  herself;  she  was 
awkward  and  terribly  the  schoolgirl. 

The  Baron  sat  on  one  side  of  her;  on  the  other,  Mr. 
Darcy  —  one  of  the  grand  gentlemen;  the  second  sat 
opposite  to  her,  next  her  mother.  In  spite  of  his  enviable 
post,  the  girl  thought  him  languid  almost  to  discourtesy. 
At  first,  indeed,  she  was  not  disposed  to  think  him  worth 
her  notice.  She  saw  gray  streaks  in  the  wave  of  crisp 
black  hair  that  dominated  his  forehead;  and  in  the  inso- 
lence of  her  youth,  she  dubbed  him  old.  He  looked  so 
tired,  too,  and  so  white;  and  when  her  mother  addressed 
him,  it  seemed  such  an  effort  for  him  to  answer  that  it 
exasperated  her  girlish  vigour. 

But  presently  she  realized  that  each  time  she  raised 
her  eyes  it  was  to  find  his  glance  upon  her;  not  with  the 
caressing  kindness  with  which  the  Baron's  gaze  so  often 
met  hers,  or  with  the  bold  curiosity  which  yonder  smart 


PANTHER'S    CUB  57 

officers  had  displayed  when  she  passed  them  just  now  in 
her  mother's  wake.  These  eyes  of  Lord  Desmond  had 
a  deep,  thoughtful  searching  in  them;  and  they  were 
wonderfully,  unexpectedly  blue  between  very  black 
lashes. 

Virginia  began  to  crumble  her  bread. 

Mr.  Darcy  asked  her  a  question,  the  kind  of  question 
which  a  budding  diplomat  who  finds  himself  relegated 
to  a  schoolgirl  would  condescend  to  put,  merely  in  order 
not  to  partake  of  his  meal  in  utter  silence. 

"Do  you  know  Vienna  well?" 

Virginia  said  she  did.  And  then  she  said  she  didn't. 
Then  she  shook  her  head  and  blushed  and  laughed  at 
her  own  stupidity;  and  caught  the  deep  look  fixed  upon 
her  from  across  the  table,  and  stretching  out  her 
hand  in  vague  confusion  for  her  glass,  knocked  it  over. 
It  was  quite  full  —  and  she  did  not  like  wine,  and 
was  too  timid  to  ask  for  water.  The  contents  ran  across 
the  table. 

She  glanced  in  terror  at  her  mother  and  blushed  to 
agony.  It  was  then  Lord  Desmond  bent  over  and  spoke 
to  her  for  the  first  time. 

"A  libation  to  the  gods  —  for  luck!"  he  said  and 
smiled  —  also  for  the  first  time.  The  smile  lit  up  his 
pale  face  with  an  indescribable  pleasantness.  Fifi,  who 
had  felt  miserable  under  a  single  dagger-glance  of  her 
mother's,  had  a  sudden  sense  of  comfort  and  support, 
which  all  the  Baron's  purring  assurances  failed  to  pro- 
duce. La  Marmora  was  now  smiling,  too. 

"  Ne  te  desoles  pas,  ma  Fifi,"  she  said  tenderly,  in  the 
language  that  came  so  easy  to  her.  "As  Lord  Des- 


58  PANTHER'S    CUB 

mond  says,  it  is  luck."     She  turned  to  the  pale  man. 
"One  must  make  allowances  for  a  schoolgirl." 

When  she  had  swallowed  her  coffee,  Madame  la  Mar- 
mora declared  that  she  had  a  thousand  engagements  and 
must  depart  with  her  petite. 

"We  promised  the  Grafin,  did  we  not,  darling  ?" 

Fifi  stared.  She  had  heard  of  no  Grafin.  But  Robecq 
created  a  useful  diversion  by  pleading  unctuously  for 
more  of  the  ladies'  company. 

La  Marmora  had  quite  the  right  tone  of  distinguished 
amiability  as  she  refused.  She  was  enjoying  her  role 
of  grande  dame. 

"But  it  is  not  good-bye!  —  au  revoir,  I  hope,"  she  went 
on  suavely,  as  she  laid  her  hand  in  Lord  Desmond's. 
She  turned  to  Robecq  while  her  hand  lingered  in  the 
Englishman's  loose  clasp.  "Perhaps,"  she  said  con- 
descendingly, "you  will  bring  your  friends  to  dine  with 
me  one  night,  before  we  leave." 

Mr.  Darcy,  much  injured  that  he  had  received  so  little 
attention  from  the  handsome  singer,  forgot  his  manners 
in  an  abrupt  disclaimer.  He  was  very  sorry,  he  was 
engaged  every  evening  far  ahead. 

"Thanks,"  Lord  Desmond  said,  slowly,  in  his  turn. 
"Yes,  I  should  like  to  come." 

There  was  a  lightning  triumph  under  La  Marmora's 
Jieavy  lid.  But  she  maintained  her  dignity,  dropped  the 
chill  fingers  with  a  little  friendly  pressure,  and  with  the 
true  aristocratic  indifference  of  tone  ordered  the  impres- 
ario to  "arrange  that,  my  good  Baron  —  Thursday  or 
Friday,  to  Lord  Desmond's  choice." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  59 

Fifi's  heart  had  a  strange  flutter  as  they  moved  to  the 
door;  as  Lord  Desmond  had  accepted,  again  he  had 
looked  at  her. 

"I  say,  Brooke,"  said  Mr.  Darcy,  turning  a  sulky  pink 
face  upon  his  companion  after  they  had  passed  the 
Kartner  Strasse  some  time  in  silence.  "You're  bowled 
over  pretty  quick,  aren't  you?  I  think  I'd  rather  see 
her  from  a  box,  myself." 

"Oh,  really  ?"  commented  the  Secretary. 

"As  for  me,  of  course,"  grumbled  the  attache,  full  of 
his  recently  acquired  local  savoir-faire,  "I  only  came 
to-day  to  oblige  old  Robecq,  who  isn't  a  bad  sort,  but 
—  once  is  enough,  thank  you.  I  don't  want  to  be  mixed 
up  with  that  kind  of  people.  It  is  all  very  fine  in  Lon- 
don. But  in  Vienna,  my  dear  fellow !" 

"Oh,  damn  Vienna,"  said  Desmond  Brooke  unex- 
pectedly, but  without  an  inflection  in  his  weary  voice. 
"Don't  I  know  Vienna,  oh,  Lord,  don't  I  know  it,  all 
these  years!" 


IX 
SIC  VOS  NON  VOBIS 

ALTHOUGH  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,  it  is  quite 
possible  for  a  woman  to  be  heroine  to  her  maid.  To 
Elisa,  cross-grained,  ugly,  shrewish  Elisa,  who  knew  every 
secret  of  her  mistress's  beauty,  every  twist  of  her  char- 
acter, La  Marmora  had  remained,  after  sixteen  years' 
experience,  something  to  be  worshipped  with  a  dog-like 
devotion,  to  be  humoured  and  borne  with  in  maternal 
patience. 

La  Marmora,  true  to  her  type,  apart  from  some  cer- 
tain inevitable  and  pardonable  explosions,  was  affable 
to  her  servants.  "Ma  bonne  Elisa,"  "ma  vieille  Elisa," 
would  trip  affectionately  off  her  tongue  in  connection  with 
her  orders.  "Ma  fidele,"  she  called  her  sometimes.  In 
moments  of  depression  she  had  wept  against  her  shoulder: 
"There  is  but  thee  to  love  me  in  the  world."  A  truer 
statement,  perhaps,  than  many  that  the  singer  was  wont 
to  make,  though  it  would  have  been  the  last  she  herself 
believed. 

Elisa  seemed  as  unresponsive  as  it  was  possible  to  be. 
Even  a  dog  could  have  wagged  a  tail,  or  licked  a  caress- 
ing hand;  but  her  eyes  spoke. 

"She  is  as  ugly  as  sin,"  La  Marmora  said  of  her,  "but 
she's  as  clever  as  the  devil  —  and  she  worships  me." 

And  if  she  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  to  love  her 

60 


PANTHER'S    CUB  61 

mistress  unreservedly,  it  seemed  as  if  this  strange  love  of 
Elisa's  had  turned  all  her  other  feelings  in  the  direction 
of  hate.  She  hated  Robecq  because  of  the  contemptuous 
clear-sightedness  which  underlay  all  his  dealings  with  the 
singer.  She  hated  the  fluctuating  household,  because  of 
its  comments  and  sneers,  its  discoveries  and  its  inven- 
tions. She  had  always  hated  Virginia;  hated  her  as  a 
child,  in  her  jealousy  of  those  spasmodic  maternal  out- 
bursts; hated  her  worse  in  her  blooming  girlhood  for  its 
contrast  with  the  beauty  which  she,  better  than  any  one, 
knew  was  on  the  wane.  But,  above  every  one,  she  hated 
Fritz;  and  while  she  hated,  she  feared  him.  Fear  is  a 
passion  which  gives  an  edge  to  all  the  other  passions,  and 
incomparably  heightens  their  object. 

On  the  evening  of  the  Friday  when  Madame  la  Mar- 
mora expected  Lord  Desmond  to  dinner,  Elisa  had  some 
trying  hours.  Ten  times  her  mistress  changed  her  mind 
with  regard  to  her  dress.  She  did  not  want  to  make  her- 
self too  beautiful;  nor  yet  too  dowdy;  nor,  heavens,  an 
eccentricity;  green  did  not  suit  her;  pink  made  her  pale, 
a  ghost !  —  "  The  white  velvet  teagown  ?  Elisa,  you 
want,  decidedly,  to  make  me  look  like  an  invalid." 

She  sat  before  the  mirror,  her  wonderful  hair  unbound, 
drumming  on  the  table  and  biting  her  lip.  Mutely  the 
maid  laid  each  rejected  garment  on  the  bed. 

"What  does  Madame  la  Comtesse  say  to  her  new 
toilette  de  chez  Revel,  the  black  crepe  de  Venise  ?"  Elisa 
had  never  chosen  to  drop  the  title  her  mistress  had  borne 
when  she  first  entered  her  service. 

"My  black  —          So  that  I  may  look  like  a  mute!" 

But  Elisa  saw  in  her  lady's  eye  that  the  suggestion  had 


62  PANTHER'S    CUB 

struck  a  sympathetic  chord ;  and,  in  her  incomparable  way, 
was  proceeding  silently  to  carry  it  out,  when  a  knock 
at  the  outer  door  summoned  her  in  another  direction. 

"Qu'  est-ce  encore ?"  screamed  the  Panther. 

"It  is  a  letter,  Madame  la  Comtesse." 

"A  letter  — Bring!" 

Madame  la  Comtesse  had  turned  white.  "The  crea- 
ture!—  He  is  not  coming "  All  day  the  dread  of 

this  had  haunted  her.  "But  give,  then!"  She  snatched 
the  missive  and  drew  a  quick  breath.  "Ah!  It  is  only 
Robecq.  What  does  he  want  now  ?  —  the  imbecile ! " 

What  Robecq  wanted  was  set  forth  in  four  lines.  He 
deplored  that  he  was  unable  to  secure  a  fourth  to  dinner 
that  night  to  his  dear  friend's  order,  and  advised  that 
Miss  Fifi  should  be  summoned  to  dine  down  after  all  — 
three  being  an  awkward  number.  He  was  devotedly 
hers,  Jean  de  Robecq. 

"Ah,  the  imbecile!"  said  La  Marmora  again;  but  she 
said  it  lightly.  Compared  to  the  calamity  she  had 
dreaded,  this  was  a  very  small  contretemps.  She  had  not 
wanted  to  have  Fifi,  "on  the  top  of  her,"  that  night.  No 
reasonable  people  were  ever  o  Vaise  with  a  long-legged 
schoolgirl,  all  ears  and  eyes,  and  blushes,  playing  non- 
conductor to  the  most  interesting  conversation.  But 
three,  that  was  true,  was  an  awkward  number  and  Fifi's 
presence  was  better  than  a  Robecq  perpetually  cutting  in, 
with  his  dominating  drawl,  his  fund  of  anecdote,  his  fat 
chuckle.  He  should  occupy  himself  with  Fifi  —  so  be  it 
—  since  he  had  failed  in  so  simple  a  task. 

She  could  not  do  without  him,  or  she  would  remorse- 
lessly have  revoked  her  invitation.  It  was  part  of  her 


PANTHER'S    CUB  63 

programme  to  sing  a  little  in  the  evening,  and  Robecq 
must  accompany.  After  Fritz  —  a  long  way  after  — 
there  was  only  one  who  could  do  this  for  her,  and  it  was 
Robecq. 

"Elisa!" 

"Madame  la  Comtesse?" 

"Tell  Fifi  to  come  here  —  quick!  but  quick!" 

"Ah  cal"  cried  La  Marmora  as  Elisa  returned  at  last, 
pushing  her  mistress's  daughter  before  her  into  the  room 
with  much  the  same  spiteful  hand  that  had  boxed  and 
shaken  in  bygone  days.  "Ah  qa,  Mademoiselle,  you 
keep  me  waiting!" 

The  mother  broke  off,  stared  and  added  in  an  altered 
voice: 

"What  is  this  ?  —  you  have  been  crying ?" 

The  sobs  struggling  in  Virginia's  throat  prevented 
reply.  But  the  other  had  seen  swollen  features,  red- 
dened eyelids.  The  clouds  rolled  away  from  her  face. 

"Eh  bien,  petite  sotte!  You  are  to  dine  down  after  all. 
See  now  what  a  monster  you  have  made  of  yourself! 
Does  one  cry  because  one  is  not  yet  in  society?  Come, 
dress,  dress !  Your  white  chiffon  and  green  sash.  Fly  — 
get  a  chambermaid  to  help  you." 

She  turned,  radiant  once  more,  to  her  mirror,  as  the 
door  closed  upon  Fifi's  exit. 

The  girl  halted  a  minute  in  the  passage  to  try  and 
control  the  fresh  rush  of  tears.  Fate  was  playing  her  one 
trick  after  another;  she  was  to  come  down,  to  be  at  the 
dinner,  after  all,  and  she  had  made  a  fright  of  herself 
for  those  blue  eyes  to  see.  She  could  not  master  the  sob 
that  rose  in  her  throat. 


64  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Listen  to  her,"  said  the  singer,  blithely.  "She  is 
crying  again,  I  declare." 

Elisa  had  a  sympathetic  grin.  She  knew  why  her 
mistress  was  pleased;  was  she  not  herself  pleased  for  the 
same  reason  ? 

"Yes"  —  said  La  Marmora  —  "I  shall  wear  the  black 
cr6pe  —  and  the  emeralds,  just  the  emeralds." 

"I  am  a  monster;  Mama  said  so,"  said  Fifi,  sur- 
veying her  own  reflection  disconsolately. 

Miza,  the  good-natured  little  Viennese  chambermaid, 
hovering  at  the  back  of  her  chair,  was  full  of  comforting 
suggestions. 

"Na  —  it  was  only  the  Spitzle  —  the  tip  of  the  Frau- 
lein's  little  nose.  If  Fraulein  would  put  a  little  powder 
on  it,  all  would  be  repaired." 

Fifi  had  no  powder.  Schoolgirls  are  not  allowed  these 
snares.  But  the  other  was  not  so  easily  defeated.  She 
would  watch  till  the  Frau  Mama  went  into  the  sitting 
room;  and  she  would  rush  then,  borrow  the  powder  and 
return  it,  all  so  quick  that  no  one  should  know. 

"The  Frau  Mama's  powder,"  she  went  on  ingenu- 
ously, "would  of  a  certainty  be  of  a  superfine  kind." 

Fifi,  still  shaken  with  gusty  sighs,  overcome  by  the  lassi- 
tude that  succeeds  such  youthful  storms,  permitted  rather 
than  encouraged  the  audacity. 

Miza  returned  from  her  raid,  out  of  breath,  triumphant 
and  voluble.  She  had  watched  the  Gnadige  across  the 
passage  —  superb  she  was!  And  the  old  one  after  her, 
carrying  a  scarf  all  embroidered  like  peacock's  feathers  — 
never  had  she  seen  such  a  scarf!  And  besides  the 
powder,  she  had  found  something  on  the  dressing  table, 


PANTHER'S    CUB  66 

which  would  suit  the  Fraulein  beautifully  and  match 
her  sash. 

"Something"  was  a  wreath;  a  delicate  strand  of  trem- 
bling young  oak  leaves.  Fifi  recognized  it  at  once  — 
it  had  taken  her  mother's  fancy  in  a  milliner's  shop  that 
morning. 

"But  Mama  was  going  to  wear  it  tor  night,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Na  —  it  is  the  Fraulein  who  shall  wear  it."  The 
maid  held  it  over  Fifi's  ruddy  curls.  "Only  Fraulein 
must  not  wear  that  plait  with  it.  See,  we  will  turn  a  little 
of  the  Gnadige's  Blanc-de-perle  into  a  little  saucer  and  I 
will  pop  it  back  in  the  room,  and  then  I  will  be  free  to  do 
the  Fraulein's  beautiful  hair." 

Once  more  Miza  fluttered  out  and  in.  She  was  laugh- 
ing gleefully,  as  she  appeared  again. 

"Think  of  it,  Mamzell,  the  old  one  caught  me.  That 
was  a  joke.  I  began  to  powder  my  own  nose!  Will 
Fraulein  look  at  it  —  to  see  that  she  can  trust  hers  to  me  ? 
'You  will  come  to  a  bad  end,'  says  the  French  witch. 
'  Anyhow,'  says  I,  '  it's  further  off  than  yours ! '  So  furious 
she  was  she  never  missed  the  wreath." 

"But  I  don't  know  if  I  dare,"  said  Fifi  dreamily. 

The  little  Viennese  paid  no  attention  to  her.  Her  fin- 
gers were  already  busy  in  the  thick  strands  of  auburn. 
She  was  not  Viennese  for  nothing  —  not  chambermaid  in 
the  most  fashionable  hotel  without  having  a  special 
experience.  Her  fingers  were  deft,  her  eyes  coquettish  and 
sure. 

"A  bunch  of  curls,"  she  murmured,  her  mouth  full  of 
hairpins.  "Ah,  pracht  Hoar  has  the  Fraulein,  it  curls 


66  PANTHER'S    CUB 

of  itself!  At  the  back  of  the  head  —  a  little  high  —  the 
Greek  way.  And  the  wreath.  A  cloud  of  powder  over 
the  face  —  Na!  not  too  much,  not  too  much,  the  Nasle 
is  already  white  of  itself.  But  a  little,  to  give  interest. 
There  was  a  lady  here,  last  winter  —  a  real  countess  she 
was  — "  the  words  slipped  out  unawares  and  unperceived 
—  "  when  she  powdered,  she  would  say  to  me  '  a  little  mys- 
tery, just  a  little  mystery ! '  Na,  now  will  Fraulein  look 
herself?" 

Fifi  looked.  The  renewed  protest:  "I  daren't  wear  the 
wreath,"  died  half  spoken.  Her  heart  echoed  Miza's 
quick  answer. 

"When  one  is  a  beauty,  like  Mamzell,  one  can  always 
dare " 

Fifi  rose. 

"Now  it  does  not  matter,  Fraulein  being  dressed  like 
a  Backfisch,"  said  Miza  triumphantly.  "Her  head  is  the 
head  of  a  lady." 

Lord  Desmond  had  entered  the  room  but  a  few  seconds 
before  Fifi.  In  fact,  she  had  waited,  with  beating  heart, 
at  a  corner  of  the  passage,  to  watch  him,  tall,  pale,  fatigued, 
pass  slowly  in  after  the  waiter. 

She  was  not  witness,  therefore,  of  his  first  look  round 
the  room  and  of  the  blankness  that  succeeded  its  searching; 
of  the  almost  insulting  indifference  —  if  anything  so  nega- 
tive as  his  manner  could  be  called  insulting  —  with  which 
he  responded  to  his  hostess's  greetings.  But  what  she 
did  see  was  the  swift  lighting  up  of  those  blue  eyes,  upon 
her  entrance.  Her  own  had  found  his,  unerringly,  from 
the  threshold.  It  was  but  a  momentary  flash  between 
them,  for  as  swiftly  his  eyelids  had  dropped. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  67 

But,  to  Fifi,  grown  woman  in  all  her  childish  ignorance, 
it  was  a  sudden  light,  sudden  warmth,  sudden  intoxica- 
tion. She  reared  her  head,  with  its  Greek  knot,  its  stolen 
wreath,  to  meet  her  mother's  glance,  first  astonished,  then 
furious  —  Alas,  that  savage  gleam  was  not  altogether 
unfamiliar ! 

"I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  taken  the  wreath,"  she 
was  thinking,  with  a  new  defiance,  "  but  I  don't  care  what 
happens  afterward.  He  likes  me  in  it." 

"Miss  Fifi!"  came  the  Baron's  bland  voice  at  her  ear, 
"I'm  de-lighted  to  see  you  down." 

His  eyes  were  saying  something  else  —  something  that 
had  kinship  with  what  Desmond's  had  said :  that  remote 
kinship  which  the  glow  of  a  coal  fire  may  have  with  the 
flame  of  sunrise. 

"  Du  bist  ja  bezaubernd,  Kind,"  he  added,  under  his 
voice.  She  caught  the  words,  unresentful  of  the  famil- 
iarity —  was  he  not,  from  all  time,  a  kind  of  old  uncle  ? 
—  unmindful  of  the  something  new  and  distinctly  non- 
avuncular,  which  had  crept  into  his  mien. 

She  felt  a  new  Fifi,  to-night;  miles  distant  from  the 
schoolgirl  that  had  flung  herself  with  such  inner  vows  of 
devotion  into  her  mother's  arms,  only  ten  days  ago.  She 
had  thought,  then,  that  if  fate  allowed  her  to  be  a  daughter, 
she  would  ask  no  more.  Now  her  whole  being  demanded 
something  else  as  with  great  cries  and  a  turmoil  of  rest- 
lessness. What  ?  She  was  too  much  of  a  child,  too  unde- 
veloped in  her  womanhood,  to  know  how  to  formulate  it 
even  to  herself;  but  for  another  such  look  from  those  blue 
eyes  she  felt  that  she  would  have  faced  all  the  maternal 
angers.  It  was  not  that  she  loved  less,  trusted  less  the 


68  PANTHER'S    CUB 

beautiful,  the  wonderful  being  whose  daughter  it  was 
her  privilege  to  be,  but  that  a  feeling  deeper  and  more 
overpowering  was  sweeping  in  upon  her  life. 

If  she  was  new  to  herself,  she  seemed  also  to  present 
a  new  aspect  to  the  singer.  More  than  once  during  the 
course  of  that  evening,  La  Marmora's  regard  fixed  itself 
upon  her  daughter  not  with  the  panther  flash,  that  meant, 
after  all,  but  the  passing  of  an  animal  emotion;  but  with 
the  brooding  look  that  boded  infinitely  more  mischief. 
It  was  a  look  that  weighed,  and  pondered,  and  decided. 
It  had  in  it  something  far  beyond  anger.  Jealousy  — 
the  love-killer  —  lurked  there. 

Yet  it  but  lurked.  In  the  denseness  of  a  magnificent 
egoism,  it  was  yet  impersonal;  jealousy  of  maturity  for 
youth;  of  the  painted  face  for  the  matchless  bloom  of 
spring;  of  the  sordidly  experienced  for  this  ignorance,  this 
innocence,  this  virginality. 


PARTIE  CARREE 

IN  SPITE  of  the  provided  fourth,  it  was  after  all  Robecq 
who  dominated  the  conversation,  during  the  meal.  The 
singer,  unsure  of  her  ground,  and  cautious  in  her  set  pur- 
pose, was  picking  her  steps,  as  it  were;  she  kept  her  voice 
to  an  undertone  and  spoke  little;  adopted  a  weary  air, 
almost  as  if  in  imitation  of  that  of  her  guest.  But  through 
her  narrowed  lids  those  long,  lustrous  green  eyes  flung 
long,  slow  looks  upon  Lord  Desmond. 

Through  his  drawling,  desultory  talk,  the  impresario 
surveyed  her  with  feelings  that  began  in  amusement 
and  ended  in  uneasiness.  To  see  the  Panther  regard  her 
prey,  all  her  claws  in;  all  purr  and  sleekness  and  sinuosity 
—  that  was  amusing.  But  behind  these  feline  graces 
his  discerning  and  experienced  gaze  was  aware  of  the 
steel  of  the  muscles,  the  sharpness  of  the  indrawn  claws, 
the  set  and  terrible  determination. 

Any  prima  donna  who  respects  herself  must  have  her 
established  admirers;  it  is  a  necessary  stimulus  to  her  art, 
and  a  wholesome,  if  she  is  careful  to  put  her  voice  first 
among  her  cares.  La  Marmora  had  had  a  many-coloured, 
polyglot  collection  but  she  had  never  taken  any  of  them 
with  seriousness,  since  the  episode  of  the  poor  young 
Pole,  with  the  exception  of  one  stormy  experience  with 
a  Russian  Grand  Duke.  The  impresario  believed  that 

69 


70  PANTHER'S    CUB 

she  had  had  her  lesson,  and  that  she  had  learnt  the  incom- 
patibility of  ambition  and  la  grande  passion,  that  the  folly 
would  never  be  repeated.  He  had,  therefore,  encouraged 
what  he  believed  to  be  a  mere  useful  relaxation  —  a 
detente  des  nerfs  —  for  the  sullen  woman  who  was  boring 
herself.  Gaily,  indeed,  had  he  facilitated  the  necessary 
introduction,  believing  that  Salome  would  reap  the 
benefit  of  renewed  zest  for  life.  A  Salome  who  was  boring 
herself!  —  he  had  shuddered  at  the  thought. 

But  to-night,  as  has  been  said,  he  was  growing  uneasy. 
The  developments  of  the  fancy  born  of  a  chance  glance 
out  of  the  hotel  window  threatened  to  become  dangerous. 
A  memory  of  Lovinski's  warning  came  back  into  his 
mind:  "She  will  jump  at  his  throat,  she  will  jump  at 
his  throat.  .  .  ."  He  told  himself  that  he  ought  to 
have  known  better  the  creature  he  had  dealt  with  so  long; 
to  have  known  the  incredible  extravagances  of  which, 
with  youth  slipping  from  them,  such  women  as  Fulvia 
were  capable;  to  have  known  that  one  whose  heart  had 
been  as  a  dried  fig  all  her  life,  may  be  seized  with  a  passion 
as  devastating  as  a  prairie  fire  —  horrible  nemesis  of  the 
love  they  have  blasphemed. 

And  this  was  the  crucial  year  of  La  Marmora's  career. 
By  Salome  she  would  stand  or  fall,  in  London.  And 
with  her  his  own  credit.  London  was  yet  unconquered 
by  him,  and  La  Marmora  was  his  conquering  army. 

"I  have  made  a  mistake  and  I  shall  have  to  steer 
precious  carefully,"  he  was  thinking.  "Yes,  precious 
carefully !  I  shall  have  to  deal  with  her  precious  carefully. 
Humour  her  .  .  .  humour  her  at  least  until  Fritz 
returns,  Fritz  the  Tamer." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  71 

Then  his  furtive  glance  wandered  to  the  young  crowned 
head  on  the  other  side  of  him  —  the  divine  young  head 
that  seemed  to  be  encircled  with  a  kind  of  halo  of  radiance 
and  beauty.  Here  was  another  complication.  But  it 
was  a  complication  that  he  could  not  regret;  nay,  it  was 
one  which  every  moment  made  him  more  anxious  to 
solve  for  himself,  and  that  in  a  manner  so  agreeable  that 
even  his  strong  head  reeled  a  little  as  he  pondered  on  it. 

The  dinner  was  served  in  the  prima  donna's  sitting 
room,  at  a  small  round  table.  The  lights  overhanging 
it  were  discreetly  shaded;  the  room  itself  was  unusually 
pretty  and  artistic  for  an  hotel ;  Empire  in  style  with  white- 
panelled  walls  picked  out  delicately  in  gold.  There  was 
a  set  of  furniture,  genuine  "of  the  period,"  upholstered 
in  dim  green;  the  chairs  had  lions'  heads  and  bosses  of 
ormolu.  It  was  all  a  little  too  simple  for  La  Marmora's 
taste.  But,  on  hearing  that  the  apartment  was  generally 
reserved  for  princely  guests,  she  had  decided  that  no 
other  would  suit  her.  She  had,  however,  to-night,  deter- 
mined to  make  up  for  what  she  considered  its  shortcomings 
by  an  extravagance  of  flowers. 

*'  I  will  have  flowers  —  flowers  everywhere,  Robecq," 
she  commanded  — "  What's  that  you  say  —  lily  of 
the  valley  ?  —  Suis-je  une  jemme  a  muguet  moi?  — 
Give  me  carnations  —  the  deep  carmine  sort.  .  .  . 
And  roses,  red  ones,  Robecq.  Roses  everywhere!" 

Roses  therefore  glowed  in  every  corner;  sheaves  of  them, 
superb,  long-stalked,  velvet-petalled,  fire-hearted,  mirrored 
themselves  on  the  mantel-shelf,  on  the  consoles.  Carna- 
tions warred  with  them  in  spicier  breath  and  ruddier 
flame.  A  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table  was  filled  with 


72  PANTHER'S    CUB 

specimen  blossoms  of  that  rose  the  crimson  of  which  is 
so  deep  as  to  be  nearly  black;  the  scent  of  which  is  so 
unutterably  sweet  as  to  be  almost  beyond  the  compass 
of  sense. 

La  Marmora,  in  her  emeralds  and  her  black  dress, 
might  have  seemed  of  beauty  wonderful  enough  against 
a  background  so  subtly  contrived  to  set  it  off,  to  turn 
any  man's  head.  But  the  two  who  sat  with  her  to-night 
were  singularly  proof.  Robecq  had  read  her  through  long 
ago,  and  found  the  page  scarce  worth  the  perusal.  Lord 
Desmond  had  had  one  measuring  glance  for  her,  as  she 
sat  down  beside  him.  She  had  bent  for  a  moment  to 
inhale  the  soul  of  a  rose,  and  over  it  their  eyes  had  met. 
Paling  under  the  exquisite  artifice  of  her  bloom,  she  had 
fixed  him,  her  nostrils  fluttering,  her  breast  heaving  — 
he  had  looked  away  from  her,  without  a  flicker  of  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  After  that,  he  had  not  raised  his  eyes 
higher  than  her  hand  when  forced  to  address  her  —  but 
mostly  looked  at  his  plate. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  meal,  the  impresario  and  his 
prima  donna  had  drifted  into  a  private  discussion  which 
threatened  to  shake  the  lady  out  of  her  assumed  aristocracy 
of  repose.  Roused  from  her  languorous  absorption 
she  rolled  an  eye  lively  with  anger,  oblivious  of  her 
guest. 

It  was  then  Lord  Desmond  turned  at  last  toward  Fifi. 
She  had  sat,  most  of  the  time,  in  a  whirl  of  excitement, 
mute,  scarce  conscious  of  what  was  going  on  about  her, 
of  anything  but  the  one  presence.  Absently  she  was 
playing  with  a  flower  that  lay  loose  before  her  plate. 

As  the  deep  glance  sought  her,  confusion  overcame  her; 


PANTHER'S    CUB  73 

and  to  conceal  it  she  pretended  in  her  turn  to  be  absorbed 
in  inhaling  the  scent. 

"  Don't ! "  said  Lord  Desmond  in  a  low  voice. 

She  turned  a  startled,  wide-eyed  gaze  upon  him. 
"Those  roses  are  abominable,"  he  went  on;  "keep  to  the 
lily  of  the  valley!" 

Again  she  questioned,  with  those  appealing  eyes. 

"The  white-and-green  lily  of  the  valley,"  went  on  the 
man,  speaking  quick  and  low,  "with  its  sharp,  fresh 
scent  —  its  clean  scent,  instead  of  all  this  heavy,  horrible 
sweetness.  Keep  to  the  lily  of  the  valley." 

"But  I  haven't  any!"  her  voice  rang  out. 

Both  her  mother  and  Robecq  stopped  in  their  wrangle 
to  look  at  her.  And  Lord  Desmond  said  no  more.  His 
eyes  went  back  to  his  plate. 

At  dessert  the  girl  mustered  courage  to  speak  to  the 
Englishman  on  her  own  account. 

"Do  you  like  emeralds?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

He  gave  her  his  attention  so  quickly  that  she  felt  her 
silly  shyness  rushing  upon  her  again;  to  cover  it  she  grew 
bold. 

"The  emeralds  of  my  mama  —  I  like  them  best 
of  all  her  jewels  —  it  was  my  papa  gave  them  to 
her." 

No  sooner  had  she  said  the  words  that  in  some  inex- 
plicable way,  she  had  a  sense  of  having  committed  an 
enormity. 

Lord  Desmond  had  not  as  much  as  shifted  his  gaze  to 
glance  at  the  green  fire  that  lapped  La  Marmora's  col- 
umned throat. 


74  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Robecq's  fingers  were  in  his  beard. 

The  girl  turned  desperately  to  him. 

"You  knew  Papa,  didn't  you  ?"  she  cried  with  a  break 
in  her  voice.  She  could  not  imagine  what  prompted  the 
question;  but  she  was  conscious  of  fresh  enormity  upon 
its  propounding. 

Her  mother  fixed  her  across  the  table  with  the  gaze 
that  brooded  and  plotted,  the  gaze  that  was  so  evil. 

"I  certainly  knew  the  Count,"  said  Robecq  after  a 
pause.  His  slow,  unemotional  utterance  relieved  the 
surcharged  atmosphere.  And  Fifi,  who  had  trembled 
on  the  verge  of  the  utter  disgrace  of  tears,  drew  a  quiver- 
ing breath. 

"Don't  you  think  we've  had  enough  food,"  said  the 
singer,  rising  abruptly.  "Lord  Desmond — "  her  voice 
sank  from  its  harsh  vibration  to  the  undertone  that  the 
Baron  called  her  purr.  "I  will  perhaps  sing  you  a  little 
song,  by  and  by.  Sit  on  the  sofa,  here,  with  your  cigar- 
ette, and  tell  me  what  I  shall  sing." 

Royalty  reverses  all  the  usual  social  rules,  invites  itself 
to  other  people's  houses,  chooses  the  guests  it  will  meet 
there.  The  Kings  and  Queens  of  Art  confer  their  favours 
in  much  the  same  way.  It  is  the  last  solecism  to  ask 
them  for  what  it  is  etiquette  to  press  the  dilettante  to 
give.  So  La  Marmora  regally  proposed  to  sing.  No 
millionaire  could  have  bought  the  grace  of  her;  indeed 
it  was  hardly  hers  to  give,  and  she  shot  defiance  at  her 
manager  even  as  she  spoke. 

"Not  for  an  hour  at  least,"  was  the  latter's  only  com- 
ment and  drily  enough  given. 

"If  I  refuse,"  he  thought,  "she  will  make  me  a  scene 


PANTHER'S    CUB  75 

afterward,  and  scream  —  anything  is  better  than  that 
she  should  scream." 

He  had  a  certain  rueful,  yet  humorous  revanche  in 
observing  the  extreme  moderation  of  Lord  Desmond's 
gratitude. 

"She  will  do  nothing  with  him,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Poor  Fulvia!" 

But  she  had  to  be  humoured.  And  so,  to  humour  her, 
he  took  the  not  disagreeable  course  of  drawing  Fifi  with 
him  to  the  piano,  and  making  her  help  him  in  his  selection 
of  songs  for  the  occasion. 

"Something  that  won't  try  Mania's  voice,  after 
those  peaches  —  eh,  Fifi  ?  Something  soothing  and 
cradly." 

He  sat  on  the  piano  stool  and  ran  his  stubby  fingers 
over  the  keys  with  a  touch  as  soft  as  velvet. 

"No,  Robecq,  no!"  cried  the  prima  donna,  roundly 
from  the  sofa. 

She  was  tingling  to  her  finger-tips  with  impatience. 
What,  for  an  hour  and  a  half  she  had  looked  her  loveliest 
and  longest,  smiled  her  sweetest,  spoken  her  most  dulcet! 
And  this  stock  sat,  twisting  his  cigarette  between  his 
pale  fingers,  with  never  a  glance,  scarce  even  a  monosyl- 
lable! He  had  moved  away  from  her,  too,  as  she  moved 
toward  him,  to  the  very  limit  of  the  sofa. 

Englishmen  .  .  . !  Englishmen  were  dense,  not  like 
your  Spaniard,  your  Pole,  or  your  Frenchman,  who  in 
a  look  find  a  whole  speech,  in  an  intonation,  an  avowal, 
in  a  sigh,  a  surrender. 

One  had  to  put  the  dots  on  the  i's  with  Englishmen, 
she  told  herself. 


76  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"  No,  Robecq,  not  that  mawkish  thing,  I'll  have  „  .  . 
I'll  have  that  song  of  Hahn's!"  She  rose  as  she  spoke, 
and  swept  across  the  parquet  floor. 

The  manager's  eyebrows  went  up,  wrinkling  into  his 
forehead.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "With  the  high 
A!"  he  murmured. 

But  he  knew  that  swish  of  drapery.  It  was  the  Panther 
lashing  her  tail.  He  allowed  her,  resignedly,  to  look 
for  the  piece.  —  She  scattered  music  like  autumn 
leaves  before  she  placed  it  on  the  desk. 

"Stop  it,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth;  "I'm  not 
maternal  to-night." 

Virginia  caught  the  words:  all  the  blood  from  her 
wounded  heart  seemed  to  rush  to  her  face. 

"Go  to  bed,"  continued  the  mother.  She  tried  to 
give  the  order  a  tone  of  gay  solicitude  —  "little  girls  must 
have  their  beauty  sleep." 

"Not  at  all,"  drawled  Robecq;  "Miss  Feefi  is  going  to 
stop  and  listen  to  Mama's  singing." 

He  flung  open  the  first  page  of  the  song  as  he  spoke 
and  struck  a  chord.  It  was  not  the  prescribed  hour  yet; 
but  in  this  wild-beast  mood,  the  poor  man  could  only 
repeat  to  himself,  "The  Panther  must  be  humoured." 

Fifi  went  over  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  and 
sat  on  a  high  chair,  in  the  shade  of  the  curtain,  looking 
out  unseeingly  into  the  street  and  fighting  back  her  tears. 

La  Marmora  turned  her  back  on  the  piano  and  fixed 
her  gaze  upon  Lord  Desmond.  He  had  never  heard 
her  sing  before  and  she  was  going  to  sing  to  him,  to  him 
alone,  as  never  she  had  sung  for  fame  or  money. 

The  first  liquid  note  rang  out;  the  man  dropped  his 


PANTHER'S    CUB  77 

cigarette,  and  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand.  The  singer's 
heart  rioted  in  triumph ;  its  pulsation  beat  into  the  passion- 
ate ecstasy  of  the  melody. 

Little  did  she  guess  that,  under  the  penthouse  of  those 
lax  fingers,  his  deep  tired  eyes  were  seeking  the  young 
figure  in  the  window;  that  he  was  dreaming  of  her,  only 
her,  so  white  and  green  and  fresh  against  the  roses  and 
carnations. 


XI 

THE  ASPIRANT 

"ROBECQ,"  said  the  prima  donna  in  her  most  strident 
tone,  "you  never  did  anything  more  idiotic  than  when  you 
sent  for  that  long-legged  child  to  join  us.  Here!  Here! 
Why,  she  makes  me  blush  ten  times  a  day.  She  was 
frankly  impossible,  last  night.  Pack  her  back!  It's 
not  right  to  interfere  with  her  studies,  anyhow.  Without 
Fritz  knowing,  too !  He'll  be  furious.  How  am  I  to  get 
up  Salome  if  Fritz  is  furious  ?" 

The  Baron,  with  his  round  legs  slightly  apart,  stood 
gazing  down  at  the  speaker.  Fulvia  was  in  elaborate 
spring  toilet;  and  though  she  could  not  keep  the  vibrating 
harshness  from  her  voice,  she  was  holding  herself  well 
under  control.  But  her  eyes  glittered  between  the  long 
lids  and  her  hand  moved  restlessly  among  the  odds  and 
ends  of  the  table  beside  her. 

He  passed  his  fingers  along  his  beard  and  pursed  his 
lips;  then  he  very  deliberately  sat  down.  Through  the 
open  window  the  hum  of  the  joyous  afternoon  hour  on  the 
Ring  rose  through  the  spring  air,  and  little  gusts  of  wind 
stirred  the  heavy,  flower-filled  atmosphere  of  the  room. 

"So,"  said  Robecq,  as  he  sat  down,  "that's  why  you 
sent  for  me  in  such  a  hurry?  You've  had  enough  of 
Miss  Fifi  already!" 

Fulvia  rolled  her  beautiful  dyed  head  impatiently  on 

78 


PANTHER'S    CUB  79 

the  cushioned  top  of  her  chair.  With  her  curious  animal 
instinct  she  scented  opposition.  But  she  did  not  want 
to  make  a  scene;  she  was  going  to  drive  in  the  Prater  and 
she  wanted  to  look  her  best. 

"I've  told  Elisa  to  get  her  trunks  ready,"  she  answered 
briefly,  "and  you're  to  find  a  chaperon  for  her,  and  she's 
to  take  the  night  train.  I've  wired  to  Madame  Aubert." 

Again  Robecq  pondered,  his  thick  fingers  on  his  beard. 
He  had  expected  this.  She  was  not  the  woman  to  submit 
long  to  the  proximity  of  blooming  girlhood,  even  had  no 
Lord  Desmond  been  within  her  horizon.  The  sudden 
desire  to  play  grande  dame  and  the  devoted  mother  at  one 
and  the  same  time  was  bound  to  go  the  way  of  all  her 
emotional  impulses,  once  she  discovered  that  her  child's 
April  had  ripened  into  May,  and  that  she  was  no  longer  a 
perfect  foil  but  a  possible  standard  of  undesirable  com- 
parison. 

He  had  anticipated  this;  what  he  had  not  anticipated 
was  that  her  jealous  vanity  should  be  so  soon  on  the  alert; 
he  had  placed  more  reliance  on  her  immeasurable  conceit. 

Poor  child !  So,  she  had  made  her  mother  blush  ?  He 
recalled  last  night's  innocent  but  disconcerting  questions, 
with  this  new  stirring  of  a  dormant  sensibility.  "  You 
knew  my  papa  ?  "  Well,  although  he  doubted  whether  the 
mother  had  ever  possessed  the  grace  of  blushing,  it  was 
possible  and  even  a  little  human  for  the  Panther  to  feel 
that  such  innocence  would  be  better  kept  apart  from  her 
present  plans. 

In  his  deliberate  way  he  thrashed  out  each  proposition 
in  turn  before  speaking;  and  decided  that  all  these  reasons 
were  at  work  with  almost  equal  strength. 


80  PANTHER'S    CUB 

He  shook  his  head  mentally  over  the  short-sighted 
policy  of  the  woman  in  her  sudden  violent  attraction. 
She  might  sweep  a  boy  off  his  feet,  but  with  a  man  like 
this  fastidious  roue"  .  .  .!  The  Panther  was  tired 
already  of  stalking  her  prey;  she  wanted  to  spring  after 
three  days'  acquaintance !  She  would  spring  —  and  miss 
—  and  then  "What  of  Salome?"  If  Fifi's  proximity 
should  delay  the  spring,  it  was  another  reason  for  not 
allowing  her  to  depart. 

"I  don't  think,"  the  slow  treacly  voice  announced  at 
last,  "that  we  can  let  Elisa  go  on  with  the  packing." 

"How?"  snarled  the  lady,  with  quick  stiffening  of  her 
back.  Her  eyes  flashed.  She  sat  up  suddenly.  "Under- 
stand me,  Robecq.  We're  going  to  England  next  week, 
aren't  we?" 

"Are  we?  You  told  me  yesterday  that  nothing  would 
induce  you  to  go  back  to  England  till  the  last  possible 
moment." 

"I've  changed  my  mind."  She  struggled  to  speak 
quietly.  "Let  us  be  reasonable!  Must  I  not  be  in 
England,  to  be  settled  and  rested  before  the  rehearsals 
begin  ?  I  want  a  house  of  my  own,  over  there.  A  house 
where  I  can  receive;  I  am  sick  of  hotels.  We  are  going 
next  week." 

"  Well,  I've  no  objection  — «-  no  very  great  objection  to 
next  week  —  only  it  would  have  been  better  to  wait  for 
Fritz  here.  But  if  you  give  me  a  good  reason  —  a  real 
reason  for  this  hurry  .  .  ."  His  cynical  small  eyes 
were  upon  her.  A  moment  her  own  glance  wavered  from 
them;  then,  with  a  jerk,  she  faced  him;  staring,  speaking 
with  a  brutal  frankness: 


PANTHER'S    CUB  81 

"Lord  Desmond  is  going  to  London,  Monday,  on 
leave;  didn't  you  hear  him  say  so,  last  night  ?" 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  the  manager,  imperturbably; 
"if  I  had  heard  that  I  should  not  have  asked.  Well, 
I  repeat,  I  have  no  objection.  Miss  Fifi  will  help  you 
nicely  to  settle  into  the  London  house." 

"I  won't  take  her  to  England,  I  won't,  and  that's  all 
about  it.  Have  I  not  told  you,  she's  got  to  go  back  to 
school?" 

"I  think  Miss  Fifi  has  done  with  school." 

"Robecq  .  .  .!"  she  warned.  It  was  almost  a 
growl  in  the  throat. 

"My  dear  friend,  be  reasonable,"  he  pursued  in  his 
steady  way,  "she  is  too  old  for  school  —  much  too  old.'* 

"Seventeen  .  .  .  eighteen,"  she  panted.  "How 
dare  you!" 

"We'll  call  it  eighteen,  if  you  like.  Eighteen's  a  very 
good  age  for  a  young  woman  .  .  .  like  Miss  Fifi  .  .  . 
to  be  married." 

She  sprang  up.  "Robecq!"  She  began  on  a  scream 
of  fury.  He  raised  his  fat  forefinger  warningly  for  a 
moment  or  two,  and  then  gently  tapped  his  throat. 

"You'll  do  that  once  too  often,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"I've  told  you  so  before." 

The  effervescence  of  her  wrath  vanished  as  suddenly 
as  bubbles  of  boiling  milk  on  the  immersion  of  the  spoon. 
She  sat  down  again. 

"Robecq,  you  are  a  brute."  It  was  plaintively,  almost 
tearfully  uttered.  He  laid  his  hands  on  his  knees  and 
leaned  over  to  her. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  rather  a  good   thing 


82  PANTHER'S    CUB 

«  .  .  for  everybody  ...  if  Miss  Fifi  were  married  ?  " 
He  paused  to  let  the  idea  sink  in.  He  saw  her  hesitate 
upon  it.  Doubt  succeeded  anger. 

"If  your  maternal  anxiety  were  completely  satisfied 
.  .  ."  there  was  a  faintly  sarcastic  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
but  his  voice  retained  its  business-like  inflection.  "If 
you  knew  her  husband  to  be  a  kind  man,  a  safe  man,  a 
very  well-to-do  man,  wouldn't  it  be  the  very  best  way, 
wouldn't  it  relieve  you  of  some  responsibility,  remove 
some  possible  future  complication  ?  You  can't  much 
longer  keep  a  fine,  well-grown  young  woman  in  those 
short  skirts  and  baby  blouses,  those  corsages  bebes,  without 
making  yourself  supremely  ridiculous.  And  if  you  send 
her  back  to  school — it  will  get  about,  my  dear,  and  it  won't 
make  the  world  think  you  any  younger,  or  any  nicer." 

The  singer's  foot  began  to  tap ;  her  colour  was  fluctuat- 
ing. 

"And  this  rich  man,  this  safe  man,  this  kind  man,  this 
paragon  —  where  are  you  going  to  find  him  for  me  ? " 

"He  is  found,"  said  the  impresario  quietly. 

She  stared  at  him.  Then  as  his  meaning  dawned  upon 
her  she  broke  into  laughter  —  the  coarse,  taunting  laugh 
of  the  child  of  the  Melbourne  gutter. 

"You!  Ma  foi,  c'est  cocasse,  vrai!  Toi,  mon  vieux! 
My  poor  old  Robecq !  You  ?  " 

In  the  very  middle  of  her  laughter,  her  vanity  cried 
out.  The  maypole  .  .  .!  to  succeed  where  she,  con- 
quering Fulvia,  had  failed!  A  moment  she  looked  at 
him  as  if  she  could  have  stabbed  him. 

"You  are  mad.  You,  and  that  child!  And  the  other 
two,  what  of  them  ?  " 


PANTHER'S    CUB  S3 

The  prosperous  ruddiness  on  the  Baron's  plump 
cheek  deepened  to  purple.  It  was  the  only  sign  of  annoy- 
ance that  he  permitted  himself  to  show. 

"You  would  naturally  feel  uneasiness  on  the  subject 
of  any  illegality,"  he  remarked  with  a  kind  of  genial 
sarcasm.  "  But  you  may  put  your  mind  at  rest.  As  an 
American  citizen  both  my  divorces  have  been  most 
strictly  conducted  according  to  every  formality  required 
by  the  law.  And  I  have,  in  either  case,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
nothing  to  reproach  myself  with.  Besides  which,  my 
first  dear  wife,  I  regret  to  say,  passed  away  last  autumn. 
She  never  was  very  strong." 

He  broke  off:  she  was  not  listening.  With  knitted 
brows,  La  Marmora,  whose  anger  had  cooled  once  more 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  waxed  hot,  was  revolving  in  her 
crude  mind  the  value  to  herself  of  the  extraordinary 
proposition.  The  long-legged  girl,  with  her  insolent 
youth,  out  of  her  way !  A  hold  for  life  upon  the  rich  and 
powerful  man  before  her  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  rose  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Ah,  but  there's  Fritz!" 

He  wheeled  on  his  chair  to  fling  a  searching  look  at 
her. 

"  Fritz  ?     What  has  he  got  to  say  to  it  ?  " 

"He's  always  interfering,"  she  said  in  a  strangled 
whisper.  "Robecq,  you  will  have  to  be  quick,  quick, 
before  Fritz  comes  back." 

She  took  a  stride  toward  the  door,  as  if  hurrying  to 
immediate  action.  He  caught  her  back  by  the  skirt. 

"Now,  look  here,  Fulvia."  He  rose  as  he  spoke  — 
a  tone  of  mastery,  foreign  to  his  persuasive  accents,  rang 


84  PANTHER'S    CUB 

in  his  voice.  "  I'll  manage  this  my  own  way,  do  you  hear  ? 
or  not  at  all.  For  one  thing  I  won't  have  the  child  hurried 
—  and,  if  Fritz  interferes  I'll  deal  with  Fritz." 

His  eye  was  still  upon  her.  There  was  a  hint  of  fear 
of  him  also  in  her  glance,  as  she  shifted  it  uneasily  from 
his  scrutiny. 

"At  least,"  she  said  sullenly,  "permit  me  to  stop  the 
packing." 

"Certainly,"  he  conceded,  all  urbanity  again.  "And 
if  you've  nothing  better  to  do  this  afternoon,  my  dear, 
you  might  get  your  daughter  some  long  clothes."  He 
laughed  gently.  "Some  garments  to  suit  a  charming 
young  lady  of  nearly — "  he  paused — "twenty-one." 


BOOK    II 


I 

THE  DOWAGER 

THE  Honourable  George  Darcy  was  a  young  man  who, 
over  a  dish  of  tea,  enjoyed  gossip  as  much  as  any  proverb- 
ial old  lady.  The  conversation  he  preferred  was  "  about 
people." 

"There's  nothing  so  interesting  as  people,"  he  was 
wont  to  say,  cosily.  But  it  went  without  saying  that 
to  be  interesting,  people  must  be  doing  —  well,  something 
a  little  shocking  or  distressing,  such  as  admiring  their 
neighbours'  wives  unduly,  or  being  ruined. 

He  was  a  fetch-and-carry  youth,  and  was  already 
making  himself  indispensable  to  the  wife  of  his  chief,  in 
the  way  of  providing  her  with  shawls  and  card  cases, 
and  tittle-tattle.  It  was  through  Mr.  Darcy  that  the 
story  of  Lord  Desmond  Brooke's  infatuation  for  Madame 
la  Marmora,  the  celebrated  singer,  got  about.  It  is  true 
that  the  ambassadress,  who  was  the  first  to  hear  it,  made 
a  point  of  repeating  nothing.  She  was  a  discreet  woman. 
She  had  heard  many  a  story  of  Lord  Desmond,  in  her 
day,  stories  of  an  even  more  thrilling  nature  than  this 
last  one;  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  was  faintly 
amused. 

"  What  will  our  poor  Grafin  Warinsky  say  ?"  she  thought; 
then  had  a  little  contempt.  She  had  seen  the  celebrated 
Marmora;  had  heard  her  and  of  her  at  Petersburg.  She 

87 


88  PANTHER'S    CUB 

had  admired  the  artist  and  despised  the  woman,  as  such 
great  ladies  will.  "Bold,  painted  adventuress!  —  So, 
that  was  what  Desmond  was  sinking  to!" 

Such  reflections  she  kept  to  herself;  but  others  of  Mr. 
Darcy's  confidantes  had  not  her  diplomatic  reserve. 
There  was  the  pink  and  plump  wife  of  the  second  secre- 
tary, for  instance.  She  was  thrilled.  She  never  had 
liked  Lord  Desmond,  resenting  his  languorous  indiffer- 
ence with  all  the  self-importance  of  a  recent  bride.  She 
thought  it  was  quite  dreadful,  and  she  wrote  home  about 
it  at  once.  In  subsequent  letters  she  had  further  details 
to  add.  Lord  Desmond  had  dined  with  Madame 
la  Marmora;  had  sent  her  cartloads  of  lily  of  the  valley. 
"Lord  Desmond  has  left,"  she  wrote  at  last.  "Would 
you  believe  it?  the  same  day  as  that  Marmora!  Some 
say,  actually  with  her.  All  Vienna  is  talking  about 
it." 

Thus  the  ball  was  set  rolling.  Plump  Mrs.  Denison's 
London  people  were  of  those  that  live  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  "best  set,"  and  liked  to  show  their  familiarity  with 
it.  A  good  deal  of  boasting  went  on  among  them  about 
"  my  daughter,  my  sister,  my  cousin  in  Vienna."  Certain 
drawing  rooms  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  in  Eccleston  Square 
and  in  Connaught  Place,  began  to  echo  Lord  Desmond's 
name.  Then,  in  artistic  circles,  where  everything  con- 
nected with  the  new  Salome,  with  the  great  Marmora,  who 
was  at  last  to  be  heard  in  London,  was  a  matter  for  eager 
discussion,  the  question  of  her  alleged  latest  admirer 
became  current  talk.  "Was  there  not  a  Grand  Duke 
on  the  tapis  ?  That  was  an  old  story !  The  last  is  Lord 
Desmond  Brooke.  Haven't  you  heard  ?  " 


PANTHER'S    CUB  89 

Then  sporadically,  like  measles,  the  gossip  was  all  over 
the  town. 

Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith,  for  instance,  heard  it  at  the 
Conservative,  on  the  same  day  that  Lord  Sturminster 
was  ragged  on  the  subject  at  the  Turf.  When  "  Martia 
Marchioness"  (as  the  great  Dowager,  the  mother-in-law 
and  mother  respectively  of  these  two  distinguished  persons, 
was  irreverently  dubbed)  sent  a  note  round  to  her  dear 
Mr.  Vere  Hamilton,  in  Queen  Anne's  Mansions,  begging 
him  to  call  in  the  evening,  for  there  was  a  matter  upon 
which  she  urgently  needed  his  valued  assistance,  he  was 
already  sufficiently  in  possession  of  the  facts  to  guess  what 
the  matter  was. 

On  his  way  to  Lowndes  Square  he  beheld,  approaching, 
the  plump,  well-groomed,  porcine  figure  and  face  of  his 
familiar  acquaintance,  Mr.  Philip  Scott,  the  admired 
musical  critic  and  dilettante.  The  latter  stopped  and 
wagged  his  tight-gloved  hand  in  flapping  greeting: 

"  How  do,  Verie  ?  —  Gay  as  ever,  eh  ?  A  rendezvous, 
I'll  wager,  by  your  haste.  Oh,  you  dog!" 

This  was  Mr.  Philip  Scott's  facetious  way.  Mr.  Vere 
Hamilton,  be  it  said,  was  well  known  as  the  most  straight- 
laced  of  little,  elderly  gentlemen.  But  he  had  a  weakness 
—  his  only  weakness  was  of  the  most  respectable  kind  — 
it  was  the  Peerage.  He  could  not  resist  stopping  to  inform 
Mr.  Scott  whither  his  steps  were  bent. 

"And  dear  old  Lady  Sturminster  most  particularly 
begged  me  to  come  round  at  once,"  he  concluded. 

The  other  pursed  his  lips. 

"You'll  find  them  in  a  rare  stew  about  that  scamp 
Desmond,"  he  opined.  "Jove,  what  a  fellow  it  is!  — 


90  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Nothing  less  than  La  Marmora.  —  Upon  my  soul,  he's 
got  courage.  She's  a  glorious  creature.  But  La  Mar- 
mora, prrr!  I'd  die  of  fright,  if  I  were  in  his  shoes. 
Ever  seen  her,  Verie?  Oh,  she's  a  glorious  creature! 
Come  with  me  down  to  Branksome,  I'll  introduce  you." 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  a  genuine  shiver  as  he  trotted  away 
from  the  suggestion. 

A  mouse-gray,  amiable,  beaver-like  old  gentleman; 
who,  if  shocked  at  some  of  the  doings  of  his  dear  friends 
in  the  Peerage,  was  yet  always  benevolently  and  conscien- 
tiously anxious  to  assist  in  the  reclamation  of  the  aristo- 
cratic sinner.  It  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  that  he 
had  been  summoned  by  some  coroneted  elderly  lady, 
distraught  at  the  doings  of  some  irresponsible  scion  of  the 
family.  It  was  very  well  known  that  it  was  owing  to  his 
prompt  diplomacy  that  weak-minded  Lord  Caradoc  had 
been  picked  away  from  the  registry  office,  just  in  time. 
It  was  whispered  that  when  little  Miss  Bolsover  was  run 
away  with  by  her  chauffeur,  it  was  Vere  Hamilton  who 
caught  them  at  Dover. 

But  although  a  familiar  of  old  Lady  Sturminster's 
forbidding  salon,  it  had  never  been  his  privilege  yet  to  be 
admitted  to  that  redoubtable  lady's  confidence  —  much 
less  consulted  by  her.  And  he  felt,  this  day,  a  proportion- 
ate sense  of  elation  and  responsibility. 

The  Dowager  Marchioness  of  Sturminster  was  one  of 
a  fast  disappearing  type.  From  the  stronghold  of  her 
early-Victorian  surroundings,  at  war  with  the  progressive 
world,  and  all  its  theories  and  doings,  she  yet  made  her 
influence  felt  upon  it;  was  still  a  power  in  it,  more  by 
virtue  of  personality  than  by  reason  of  her  rank  and  con- 


PANTHER'S    CUB  91 

nection.  Well  past  seventy  as  she  was,  there  gleamed 
an  unquenchable  vitality  in  her  pale  gray  eye.  In  the 
thick  bands  of  hair,  smoothed  down  in  swelling  puffs 
over  her  ears,  not  a  gray  strand;  they  were  of  a  horrible 
sandy  hue  that  owed  nothing  to  artifice.  These  were 
invariably  crowned  with  a  flat  agglomeration  of  lace 
and  black  riband. 

She  had  never  been  handsome ;  she  had  never  been  even 
pleasant-looking;  she  had  never  known  how  to  dress  her- 
self; she  was  not  in  the  least  brilliant  of  conversation; 
her  ideals,  her  principles  were  narrow  and  uncom- 
promising. Her  religion  combined  a  certain  Puritan 
self-assertiveness  with  a  truly  Erastian  finality;  withal 
a  deep  ingrain  of  worldliness  which  tinged  her  every 
thought  and  her  whole  outlook  on  life:  she  would  be  as 
repellant  to  the  plebeian  as  to  the  peccant. 

Needless  to  say  that  she  had  innumerable  toadies; 
that  her  only  daughter  was  a  weak-minded  nonentity; 
that  both  her  sons  were  notorious,  even  in  this  rapid  age, 
for  the  fastness  of  their  living :  one  a  spendthrift,  the  other 
a  roue;  and  that  her  daughter-in-law,  the  reigning  March- 
ioness —  a  delicate,  extravagant,  American  millionaire 
beauty  —  outraged  every  one  of  the  terrible  old  peeress's 
most  cherished  prejudices. 

No  sooner  was  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton  ushered  into  the 
room  in  Lowndes  Square  than  he  became  aware  that  he 
had  indeed  been  summoned  to  a  family  conclave. 

Here  was  Lady  Alice  Warren-Smith  rolling  her  pale, 
frightened  eyes  at  him  from  the  chair  beside  her  mother; 
it  was  an  easy-chair,  but  she  sat  bolt  upright  to  mark 
her  deference.  And  here  was  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith, 


92  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Bart.,  J.  P.,  M.  P.,  her  worthy,  wealthy,  vulgar  spouse 
—  whom  the  Dowager  had  insisted  upon  her  accepting 
and  whom  she  treated,  with  much  system,  with  far  less 
respect  than  she  did  her  butler.  An  obese  man  this, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  high  chair,  occasionally  checking 
a  tendency  to  call  his  mother-in-law  "my  lady." 

A  look  of  relief  passed  over  his  countenance  at  sight 
of  the  last  comer.  Here  was  one  who  was  safe  to  greet 
him  as  an  equal  and  bring  balm  to  his  harrowed  self- 
esteem. 

Naturally  a  purse-proud,  self-assertive,  bumptious 
personality,  he  suffered  agonies  in  his  intercourse  with 
his  wife's  relations ;  but,  such  is  the  innate  respect  for  the 
nobility  in  the  British  middle-class  mind,  he  would  not 
have  exchanged  his  purgatory  for  any  less  aristocratic 
heaven. 

The  Dowager  extended  a  cold  wrinkled  hand,  and 
smiled  a  faint  welcome.  She  liked  Vere  Hamilton.  He 
was  the  most  sympathetic  of  her  toadies;  she  knew  him 
to  be  a  gentleman  and  of  quite  decent  country  stock. 
He  went  everywhere,  too;  there  was  hardly  a  fashionable 
entertainment  the  list  of  which  did  not  end  with  the 
words  "and  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hamilton?  It  is  very  good  of 
you  to  come,  I'm  sure.  Sit  down,  won't  you  —  Sir 
Joseph,  a  chair  for  Mr.  Hamilton." 

"Joseph!"  said  Lady  Alice,  warningly. 

Her  husband  bullied  her  pompously  at  home;  but  in 
her  mother's  house  she  was  still  his  unconquerable 
superior.  Poor  Joseph  hurried  to  advance  the  Berlin 
wool-work  atrocity  he  was  himself  sitting  on. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  93 

The  Dowager  was  not  one  to  beat  about  the  bush. 

"I've  just  heard  the  most  shocking  news  of  Desmond," 
she  began.  "Alice  heard  it  at  the  Peterboroughs.  Sir 
Joseph  heard  it  —  in  the  City.  It's  all  over  the  place.  — 
I  see  you  know  it  too."  She  broke  off  and  drew  her 
long  upper  lip  over  her  teeth  with  a  kind  of  gloomy 
triumph. 

"I  have  heard  —  rumours "  said  the  distressed 

beaver. 

"Shocking!"  said  Sir  Joseph. 

Lady  Alice  drew  her  mouth  down  in  imitation  of 
her  mother's. 

"It  seems,"  said  this  latter,  taking  up  the  thread  again, 
"that  creature  has  taken  a  place  on  the  river,  and  that 
my  wretched  son  motors  down  every  day.  —  Joseph  tells 
me  there  was  a  paragraph  about  it  in  one  of  these  scurrilous 
picture  papers." 

The  informant  wagged  his  head,  encouraged  by  that 
rare  mark  of  favour,  the  dropping  of  the  prefix  to  his 
name. 

"My  attention  was  drawn  to  it;  I  don't,  as  a  rule,  open 
these  —  papers,"  said  he,  lifting  a  protesting  hand. 
"I  thought  the  family  ought  to  know." 

His  mother-in-law  cut  in  rudely  upon  this  explanation, 
and  he  coughed  apologetically,  to  show  that  so  far  from 
bearing  malice  he  recognized  it  was  his  mistake. 

"It's  not  my  way,"  the  old  lady  was  saying,  "as  you 
know,  Mr.  Hamilton,  to  take  notice  of  idle  or  offensive 
gossip.  It  is  natural,  I  suppose,  that  young  men,  in 
my  son's  position,  should  be  talked  about;  but  I  under- 
stand that  the  creature  in  question  is  extremely  notorious." 


94  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Indescribable  was  the  arrogance  of  the  Dowager's  eye 
and  voice  when  she  spoke  of  her  son's  social  eminence; 
equally  indescribable  the  cold  disdain  of  her  reference 
to  "the  creature." —  "And  there  is  my  son's  diplomatic 
position  to  consider.  It  may  seriously  injure  his  prospects, 
if  this  scandalous  tittle-tattle  continues." 

Vere  Hamilton  really  felt,  as  he  had  just  now  announced, 
very  much  distressed. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  said,  "that  not  only  shall  I 
make  a  point  of  contradicting  any  rumours  that  I  hear, 
but " 

"What  good  will  that  do  ?"  asked  his  hostess,  with  her 
usual  ruthlessness.  "What  we've  got  to  find  out  is  how 
much  truth  there  is  in  the  whole  thing.  I  am  told  you 
can't  open  a  paper  without  seeing  her  photograph.  I 
believe  the  creature's  an  opera  singer  or  something  of 
that  kind,  and  they're  advertising  her,  or  she's  adver- 
tising herself.  She  must  be  easy  enough  to  find  —  at 
least  for  gentlemen."  She  showed  her  long  yellow  teeth 
in  a  withering  smile.  Then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
and  added  with  finality:  "You've  got  to  find  out  for  me, 
Mr.  Hamilton." 

"I!"  cried  the  little  gray  gentleman,  in  a  tremendous 
flutter.  He  remembered  Scott's  airy  proposition  of  a 
few  minutes  before,  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair 
with  a  sense  of  guilt.  It  was,  indeed,  easy  for  gentlemen! 

She  looked  upon  his  embarrassment  with  a  hard  eye, 
at  the  back  of  which  there  was  a  remote  and  icy  gleam 
of  humour. 

"You'd  better  go  to  the  creature's  house  and  see  for 
yourself."  She  paused,  to  let  the  full  bearing  of  her 


PANTHER'S    CUB  95 

mandate  be  grasped:  and  then  added,  with  once  again 
that  arctic  glint  of  amusement :  "  Joseph  will  go  with  you." 

The  baronet  gave  a  leap  on  his  chair,  accompanied 
with  a  gasp.  "My  lady—  "  he  began,  only  to  break 
off  with  his  apologetic  cough. 

"Oh,  Mama!—  "  murmured  Lady  Alice.  It  was  a 
very  meek  protest;  but  even  that  brought  the  protuberant 
gray  eye  slowly  upon  her,  and  she  quailed. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  if  you're  afraid  to  trust 
Joseph 

"Oh,  Mama  —  oh,  no,  Mama!  Joseph  will  certainly 
do  what  he  can!" 

The  wife  frowned  at  her  husband  with  a  nod  and  a 
grimace,  stimulating  him  to  speak  for  himself.  The 
poor  man  cleared  his  throat  and  echoed  the  conjugal 
"certainly"  in  no  very  certain  voice.  A  gloved  hand 
laid  before  his  mouth  —  for  that  expressive  cough  of 
his  was  again  in  requisition  —  he  turned  a  piteous  glance 
upon  Vere  Hamilton. 

The  latter  was  looking  very  dubious  himself.  To  go 
and  visit  a  far-famed  prima  donna  upon  a  laudable  errand 
was  an  alarming  but  not  altogether  unpleasant  pros- 
pect —  but  to  go  in  the  company  of  Sir  Joseph  Warren- 
Smith  was  quite  another  thing. 

"Of  course  I  know  he  means  well  and  is  a  most  worthy 
person,"  the  friend  of  the  aristocracy  was  saying  in  his 
little  gentlemanly  soul,  "but  he  is  a  vulgarian!  And  this 
requires  a  great  deal  of  tact.  .  .  .  Still,  for  such  an 
old  friend  as  Lady  Sturminster,  and  for  poor  Lord  Des- 
mond's sake,  perhaps  it  may  be  really  better  to  go  with 
one  of  the  family  —  more  above-board." 


96  PANTHER'S    CUB 

As  he  cogitated  in  this  strain,  the  decision  was  made 
for  him: 

"So  it  is  settled,"  said  the  great  lady.  "You  will  make 
arrangements,  both  of  you.  It  had  better  be  early  this 
week.  —  Now,  I  think  we'll  have  tea."  Her  countenance 
assumed  the  nearest  approach  to  affability  of  which  it 
was  capable.  "Sir  Joseph,  ring  the  bell." 


II 

CASSANDRA 

SIR  JOSEPH  rose  with  alacrity;  agitated  the  china 
handle  —  there  were  no  electrical  innovations  for  the 
Lowndes  Square  house  —  and,  on  his  way  back  to  the 
walnut  chair  with  that  Berlin  wool-worked  seat,  paused 
to  look  out  of  the  window.  He  had  caught  the  sound 
of  motor  throbs  slackening  at  the  door;  and  an  insatiable 
curiosity  was  part  of  the  worthy  cotton-spinner's  moral 
dower. 

"I  believe  it  is  Sturminster ! "  he  announced,  in  tones 
of  stifled  excitement.  "  Sturminster "  —  the  name  rolled 
off  his  tongue  with  a  never-fading  zest  —  "  and  Lady 
Sturminster  with  him,"  he  added,  in  less  assured  accents. 

He  had  never  yet  dared  call  this  relation  "  Cassandra." 

The  Dowager  collected  the  attention  of  her  guests  by  a 
single,  magnetic  sweeping  glance;  then  she  said:  "Kindly 
do  not  mention  the  matter  at  all  before  my  son  and  his 
wife." 

"Of  course  not,  Mama."  Lady  Alice  was  spokes- 
woman for  the  party.  Fancy,  if  Sturminster  had  wanted 
to  go  and  visit  this  woman,  too,  how  dreadful  that  would 
be! 

"Lord  and  Lady  Sturminster,"  heralded  the  mouldy 
butler.  He  had  a  fine  graduation  of  manner  for  his 
office  —  his  intonation  was  a  study  in  precedence. 

97 


98  P  A  N  T  H  E  R  '  S    C  U  B 

Lady  Sturminster  was  considerably  taller  than  her 
husband;  and  her  height  was  accentuated  by  a  sapling 
slenderness.  Everything  about  her  was  long  and  slim  - 
except  her  nose,  which  was  delicately  cocked.  As  Vere 
Hamilton  rose  at  her  entrance,  he  was  conscious  of  a  new 
and  agreeable  sensation;  she  was  so  young,  so  smart, 
so  pretty,  in  these  ugly,  sombre  and  austere  surroundings, 
amid  these  rigid,  heavy  people!  Of  course  he  repressed 
the  comparison  as  disloyal  to  his  dear  old  friend;  but 
he  adjusted  his  eyeglasses  for  a  better  view  of  the  piquant 
transatlantic  face  with  its  subtle,  delicious  spice  of  mis- 
chief. 

"  Hullo ! "  said  Lord  Sturminster  —  he  was  a  squat, 
sandy  man,  with  a  remarkable  likeness  to  his  mother, 
but  with  this  startling  difference,  that  light  protruding 
eyes,  prominent  teeth  and  Wellingtonian  nose,  in  him 
all  made  for  joviality.  He  had  a  loud  ringing  voice; 
and  one  almost  instinctively  expected  to  see  a  straw  in 
his  mouth  and  riding  gaiters  on  his  rather  bowed  legs. 
He  bred  and  ran  his  own  horses;  betted  as  heavily  as 
any  man  in  the  Kingdom;  had  never  been  known  to 
wear  a  silk  hat  straight;  had  the  Garter  and  was  the 
most  popular  peer  on  the  turf. 

If  the  Dowager  felt  for  any  human  being  a  sensation 
resembling  the  warmth  of  love  it  was  for  her  elder  son; 
and  this  latter,  under  all  this  rattle  and  rollick,  seemed 
to  reciprocate  the  attachment.  Whether  the  sentiment 
were  genuine  on  his  part  or  not,  his  mother's  banking 
account  certainly  testified,  at  too  frequent  intervals,  to 
the  sincerity  of  hers.  She  gave  him  now,  as  he  entered, 
a  glance  and  smile  reserved  for  him  alone.  He  stooped 


PANTHER'S    CUB  99 

and  kissed  her  with  a  smack,  then  genially  faced  the 
room. 

"Hullo!"  he  said  in  a  loud  cheery  voice;  "hullo,  old 
girl,  we've  not  timed  ourselves  quite  right  I  see!  The 
mater's  got  a  tabby  tea.  Hullo,  Hamilton  —  old  chap ! 
Hullo,  Joseph!" 

Meanwhile  the  greeting  between  mother-in-law  and 
daughter-in-law  took  place  in  nearly  complete  silence. 
Cassandra  Sturminster  had  made  merely  a  little  cooing 
sound  in  her  throat  as  she  stooped  a  scented  cheek  vaguely 
in  the  direction  of  the  lean  one  that  was  freezingly  extended 
to  her.  Then  she  nodded  all  round  with  another  little 
circular  murmur : 

"Alice  —  Sir  Joseph,"  and  extended  her  long  slim 
hand  for  Vere's  pressing,  blinking  the  while  positively 
fabulous  eyelashes  appealingly  at  him. 

"Tea,  Sturminster?"  inquired  his  mother  unemotion- 
ally. "  Tea,  Cassandra  ?  Alice,  I  believe  there's  muffin." 

Sir  Joseph  precipitated  himself  to  hand  the  muffin 
dish.  Long-toothed,  dull-eyed,  the  image  of  patrician 
nullity,  his  wife  ministered  among  the  tea-cups. 

"We  just  looked  in,  you  know,"  said  the  sporting 
marquis.  He  sat  him  down  astride  a  chair,  leaning  his 
arms  on  the  back,  and  gazed  genially  at  his  mother  — 
"Looked  in,  just  to  show  I'm  still  alive,  don't  you  know. 
The  new  car's  a  ripper.  When  will  you  come  for  a  spin 
in  it  ?  Do  you  a  world  of  good,  you  know." 

The  Dowager  gave  him  a  peculiar  smile : 

"I  do  not  think  you'll  ever  see  me  in  a  motor-car, 
Sturminster."  Her  voice  was,  for  her,  quite  warm. 

"Ha!  don't  be  too  sure.     What  do  you  bet?     Why, 


100  PANTHER'S    CUB 

at  the  rate  we  are  going,  there  won't  be  a  gee  left  in  the 
Kingdom  in  another  couple  of  years.  I  say,  mater,  if 
you  don't  hurry  up,  you'll  be  bowled  to  the  family  monu- 
ment in  a  motor-hearse.  Good  idea,  that  —  wonder 
it  has  not  been  thought  of  before  —  capital  thing  for 
country  funerals.  Might  start  a  company!  Eh,  old 
girl  —  an  idea  in  that,  what  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly,  Wurzel!"  The  American's  soft, 
tired  voice  fell  as  gently  in  the  midst  of  his  great  guffaw 
as  a  bird-note  in  the  pause  of  a  March  gale.  "  Oh,  no, 
no,  Mr.  Hamilton,  no  tea,  thank  you  —  No,  Sir  Joseph, 
no  muffin,  thank  you.  No,  mother,  I  won't  have  any  tea, 
thank  you,  I've  had  a  pick-me-up  at  the  Club." 

"A  pick-me-up!"  gasped  Lady  Alice  into  the  Dow- 
ager's silence,  which  had  become  stony  the  instant  her 
daughter-in-law  monopolized  the  conversation. 

"Red  lavender,  chloroform,  soda -mint,"  murmured 
Cassandra  Sturminster  ingenuously.  "I'm  so  dyspep- 
tic   "  She  turned  her  great  violet  eyes,  that  seemed 

one  lovely  craving  for  sympathy,  toward  Vere  Hamilton. 

In  the  day  of  the  Dowager  Marchioness  no  lady  had  a 
club,  no  lady  had  pick-me-up's,  no  lady  had  dyspepsia. 
Every  fold  of  the  Dowager's  black  silk,  every  large  flat 
button  on  its  surface  protested.  But  she  sat  rigid,  and 
she  said  nothing.  It  was  by  this  weight  of  silence  and 
rigidity  that  she  fought  the  losing  battle  of  early- Victorian 
tradition. 

Lord  Sturminster  pranced  his  chair  as  a  boy's  hobby- 
horse; then  his  alert  eye  rested  on  his  brother-in-law. 

"Hullo,  Joe,  you  look  a  bit  rough  in  the  coat,  old 
man!  What's  to  do?  Ain't  Manchester  where  it  was, 


PANTHER'S    CUB  101 

market  a  bit  shirty  ?  Joseph  —  you've  something  on 
your  mind  —  Alice,  what's  Joseph  got  on  his  mind  ? " 

"Sir  Joseph  is  kind  enough  to  take  the  family  anxiety 
to  heart,  about  your  brother,"  said  the  Dowager. 

Lady  Alice  felt  the  sneer,  the  more  so  that  her  uncon- 
scious spouse  was  puffing  out  his  chest  with  satisfaction. 

"So  that's  what  the  tabby  tea  is  about,"  said  the  grace- 
less head  of  the  house  with  his  rich  guffaw.  "Lucky 
fellow,  young  Desmond !  They  say  she's  a  corker.  Seen 
her  photo,  Joe?  Oh,  Joe,  don't  deny  it!  What  d'you 
bet  old  Joe  is  planning  to  get  introduced  ?  " 

The  poor  millionaire  turned  purple  at  this  close  shot; 
and  Mr.  Hamilton  was  not  unaware  of  a  blush.  Cas- 
sandra drew  attention  to  herself  with  one  of  her  auda- 
cious soft- voiced  statements: 

"Please  do,  Sir  Joseph.  Then  you  can  take  me  — 
you  know.  I'm  just  longing  to  go.  I  hear  she's  a  deevy 
place  on  the  river.  Mrs.  Orris's  you  know,  all  marble 
and  white  bear  skins.  I've  always  wanted  to  see  it. 
But  Mrs.  Orris  always  went  to  so  many  races  —  I  should 
have  had  to  bow  to  her,  and  that  would  have  been  tire- 
some for  Wurzel,  as  he  knows  her  so  well." 

She  paused,  smiling  at  the  toes  of  her  gray  doeskin 
shoes,  apparently  quite  unconscious  of  the  awful  charac- 
ter of  the  sensation  she  was  producing.  Even  Wurzel 
(alias  Sturminster)  threw  her  one  quick  angry  look 
before  that  burst  of  hilarity  which  with  him  greeted 
every  situation. 

"I  hear  she's  giving  strawberry  teas,"  pursued  the 
cooing  accents.  "Katty  Berkshire  says  they're  rippin'. 
One  meets  just  every  one  one  wants  to  meet.  And  they 


102  PANTHER'S    CUB 

call  her  the  Panther.  I'd  just  like  to  go  and  have  straw- 
berries with  a  Panther." 

"It  seems  as  if  we  should  really  have  some  hot  weather 
at  last,"  said  the  Dowager. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  young  Desmond  to  take  you, 
«h,  old  girl?"  asked  his  lordship,  ignoring  the  severe 
maternal  lead. 

"I  will,  Wurzel,  thanks  for  the  tip.  Oh,  do  you  think 
he  will?" 

Cassandra  fixed  her  husband  with  a  wealth  of  appeal 
in  her  eyes.  He  gave  another  quick  glance  before  his 
laugh.  Cool,  unruffled,  invariably  sweet,  with  apparently 
as  little  heart  as  temper,  Lady  Sturminster  was  a  complete 
and  exasperating  mystery  to  her  husband.  She  had 
taken  his  first  infidelity  —  a  mere  trial  trip  or  coup  d'essai 
• — with  the  same  unruffled  front  as  that  with  which  she 
now  accepted  his  many  intrigues.  Inconsequently  and 
manlike,  he  resented  that  she  should  not  resent;  smarted 
that  she  did  not  smart;  and  in  some  lost  corner  of  moral 
manhood,  was  shocked  that  she  was  not  shocked.  Had 
she  retaliated  in  kind,  he  would  have  shown  no  mercy 
to  her.  But  aloof,  untouched,  self-possessed,  gay,  to  all 
appearances,  she  sailed  through  her  brilliant  life  as  if 
it  utterly  contented  her. 

"Alice  and  I  propose  to  drive  in  the  Park  after  tea," 
the  undaunted  Dowager  proceeded. 

"Well,"  said  Cassandra,  "then  Wurzel  and  I  had  better 
hook  it."  Her  soulful  eyes  sought  the  mother-in-law's 
face.  Again  the  rose-leaf  cheek  made  its  feint  of  brush- 
ing the  parchment  one.  "Good-bye,  Sir  Joseph.  You 
won't  forget  ?  I  count  upon  you,  if  Desmond  fails.  Alice, 


PANTHER'S    CUB  103 

you're  fenced  in  by  the  tea-table."  She  kissed  her  pearl- 
gray  finger-tip  over  the  massive  tea-urn.  "You've  got 
a  bit  of  muffin  on  your  lap,  dear.  Good-bye." 

It  was  Vere  Hamilton  alone  who  had  the  privilege  of 
holding  that  slender  hand  for  a  moment  in  his  own. 

"  You'll  come  to  see  me,  won't  you  ?  .  .  . "  she 
measured  his  pleasant  elderly  countenance  —  what  use 
would  she  have  for  Mr.  Hamilton  after  all  ?  and  added 
with  her  gossamer  sweetness  — "  some  day  ?  Come 
along,  Wurzel." 

The  silence  that  proclaims  a  dissatisfaction  too  deep 
for  words  followed  her  departure.  Then  the  Dowager 
turned  to  Alice  with  the  sepulchral  question : 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why  she  calls  him  Wurzel  ?  " 

"I  believe,"  said  Lady  Alice  feebly,  "that  when  they 
were  first  married  she  began  by  nicknaming  him  '  old 
turnip  head.'" 

Again  the  silence  fell  —  a  painful  silence,  broken  only 
by  Sir  Joseph's  apologetic  cough. 


Ill 

ORRIS'S  FOLLY 

THE  dining  room  at  Branksome  Cottage  —  Orris's 
Folly,  as  the  neighbourhood  had  dubbed  it,  the  country 
house  rented  by  Madame  la  Marmora  for  the  season  — 
was  almost  an  al  fresco  apartment.  The  celebrated  and 
erratic  lady,  under  whose  auspices  the  once  unpretentious 
little  building,  so  admirably  situated,  had  been  prac- 
tically reconstructed,  had  happened  to  be  passing  through 
a  phase  of  classic  enthusiasm  at  the  time.  It  had  struck 
her  as  nothing  incongruous  —  or  perhaps  the  very  incon- 
gruity had  pleased  —  to  set  on  homely  English  lawns, 
beside  a  placid-flowing  English  river,  these  fancies  of  a 
southern  grace,  of  bygone  Attic  days.  Neither  had  it 
troubled  her  that  slender  columns  of  white  marble, 
marble  floors  and  steps,  should  abut  on  brick  and  half- 
timber.  She  had  demanded  classic  halls  and  terraces 
to  set  off  what  some  enthusiastic  critic  had  called  her 
peculiar  classic  grace  —  the  Greek  drama  had  been 
her  last  success  —  and  had  obtained  what  she  demanded. 
In  no  room  had  her  own  taste  and  her  architect's  fidelity 
to  it  been  carried  out  to  better  purpose  than  in  that 
reserved  for  "Feasts." 

On  one  side  it  opened  upon  a  covered,  columned,  loggia- 
like  terrace,  which,  with  six  shallow  steps  of  white  marble 
running  the  whole  length  of  the  front,  led  out  to  the 

104 


PANTHER'S    CUB  105 

falling  sweep  of  the  turf,  with  the  river  sparkling  far 
beneath.  Huge  tangles  of  Virginia  creeper  and  honey- 
suckle had  been  trained  to  climb  to  the  roof  and  fling 
wreaths  and  long  hanging  tendrils  between  and  across 
the  pillars. 

Within,  the  room  was  almost  bare;  it  was  cool  and 
marble- walled ;  it  was  ceiled  with  gleaming  copper  foil; 
on  the  marble  flags  two  or  three  tiger  skins  were  tossed 
about.  Classic  reclining  seats  ran  the  length  of  the 
narrow  board  which  served  as  dining  table,  on  one  of 
which  a  gorgeous  spread  of  purple  silk  marked  the  host- 
ess's place.  At  one  end  of  the  strange  chamber  a  pedestal 
of  exquisite  line  bore  a  bronze  head  of  Antinous,  before 
which  it  had  been  Mrs.  Orris's  much  applauded  custom 
to  place  fruits  in  sacrifice,  and  a  lamp  ever  burning  with 
aromatic  oil. 

The  present  occupant  of  this  fantastic  dwelling  was  as 
ignorant  of,  as  she  was  indifferent  to,  the  pieties  of  the 
Golden  Age;  but  she  too  fancied  herself  vastly  amid  the 
marble,  and  found  a  childish  pleasure  in  dispensing 
hospitality  in  surroundings  so  unusual  as  to  provoke 
perpetual  comment,  wonder  and  admiration. 

This  day  of  May,  however,  she  sat  at  luncheon  in  her 
colonnaded  feast  chamber  with  no  other  guest  than  her 
manager,  who  had  motored  down  from  London  unex- 
pectedly; Fifi  made  a  third  at  the  meal.  And  none  of 
them  appeared  to  be  in  any  specially  contented  frame 
of  mind,  for  Robecq  had  brought  news  that  was  unpalat- 
able to  each. 

Yet  it  was  a  day  to  make  the  heart  glad.  The  wind, 
faint  and  warm  as  summer,  though  the  incomparable 


106  PANTHER'S    CUB 

freshness  of  spring  still  lurked  in  its  breath,  set  the  long 
tendrils  of  young  green  swinging  against  the  blue  sky. 
A  double  row  of  blue  hyacinths  bordered  the  grass  walk 
to  the  lip  of  the  terrace  where  grass  stairs  led  to  the  lower 
lawns.  At  the  head  of  these,  two  classic  vases,  springing 
with  orange  azalea,  blazed  against  the  distant  beech- 
woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  which  gleamed  far 
below  like  the  damascene  of  some  cunning  Oriental  blade. 

May  had  begun  its  course  in  unusual  radiance.  Day 
after  day  passed  in  splendour  of  blue  sky;  Madame  la 
Marmora  had  been  but  a  week  in  possession  of  Brank- 
some,  and  no  cloud  had  thus  far  dimmed  the  long  sunny 
hours.  But  now  the  cloud  was  on  the  brow  of  the 
dwellers  in  this  paradise.  Fulvia  flung  herself  petulantly 
against  the  purple  drapery  of  her  Greek  seat.  Her 
strong  white  hand  drummed  the  fine  linen  on  the  table 
before  her.  It  was  a  choice  bit  of  weaving  with  a  key- 
pattern  orange  border;  for  Mrs.  Orris's  taste  had  pro- 
vided suitable  drapery  to  her  classic  board,  which  had 
had  perforce  to  be  left  to  her  tenants. 

"Never  a  moment's  peace,  sapristi!  One  might  think 
that  I  might  have  as  much  holiday  as  a  schoolboy.  Mais 
non  —  M.  le  Pedagogus  is  back  upon  me!  Robecq, 
that  is  a  fine  trick  you  played  me.  It  was  you  dug  up 
the  old  man ! " 

"The  best  turn  I  ever  did  you  in  all  my  life,  Fulvia," 
said  the  manager,  with  a  trifle  less  urbanity  than  was 
usual  with  him.  "Where  would  you  be  without  Fritz? 
Answer  me  that." 

She  capped  him  after  the  fashion  that  betrayed  her 
origin:  "Come,  where  would  you  be?" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  107 

"Considerably  poorer,"  owned  he  with  the  ghost  of 
his  chuckle.  "Considerably  worse  off.  I'm  the  first 
to  admit  it." 

His  eye  fell  on  the  ripe,  sullen  countenance  of  the 
girl  opposite  to  him,  at  the  far  end  of  the  table.  Both 
her  elbows  were  propped  on  it,  her  clasped  hands  under 
her  chin;  the  loose  sleeves  of  her  silk  blouse  had  fallen 
back  from  the  young,  firm  curves  of  sunburnt  arms  and 
wrists.  Her  hair  stood  out  in  a  glory  against  a  sunlit 
patch  of  marble  space  behind  her.  Her  face  beneath 
was  downcast  as  a  child's  —  beautiful,  he  thought,  with 
its  glow  and  tan,  with  the  carmine  and  gold  in  which  this 
open-air  week  had  steeped  it. 

"Considerably  worse  off,"  drawled  Robecq  again; 
wiped  his  bearded  lip  with  the  absurd  fringed  napkin; 
and  suddenly  smiled  —  his  own  genial  self  once  more. 

"Fritz  does  keep  us  a  little  too  much  in  order,"  he 
pursued;  "and  I  own,  dear  friend,  that  I  should  have 
been  quite  content,  if  he  had  withdrawn  the  light  of  his 
countenance  for  just  another  fortnight,  when  the  work 
for  Salome  must  begin  in  earnest  —  I'm  not  clear,  either, 
that  he  ought  to  travel  so  soon.  He's  had  a  pretty  sharp 
attack,  I'm  afraid." 

"Show  me  his  letter,"  ordered  the  singer. 

She  snapped  it  from  his  hand,  as  with  characteristic 
deliberation  he  selected  it  from  his  pocketbook.  He 
watched  her  face  as  she  read;  he  had  expected  just  that 
dilation  of  the  nostrils,  that  uplifted  lip  of  anger;  that 
glance  of  menace  flung  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the 
other. 

"Et  voila!"  she  cried.     "The  old  nurse  is  after  the 


108  PANTHER'S    CUB 

baby!     Who  told  him  Fifi  was  here?     Who  told  him, 
I  say!" 

Again  she  rapped  the  table: 

"Ah,  ca!     Did  you,  you  little  fool  ?" 

Fifi  shook  her  aureoled  head. 

"Youthen?" 

"No,"  soothed  the  Baron,  "neither  the  young  fool,"  his 
glance  rested  caressingly  upon  Fifi,  "nor  the  old  fool." 
He  tapped  his  buff  waistcoat  jocosely.  "My  dear  friend, 
it's  as  simple  as  A  B  C.  You  forget  Madame  Aubert." 

"Old  busybody!  It  serves  me  right  for  letting  that 
brat  be  planted  on  me!" 

Fifi  unclasped  her  hands  to  hide  a  trembling  lip.  This 
mother,  still  beloved  in  spite  of  a  hundred  cruel  caprices, 
had  not  yet  lost  the  power  to  wound  to  the  quick.  She 
was  still  enthroned  in  a  sanctuary,  to  be  believed  in,  to 
be  worshipped,  propitiated;  a  vengeful  deity,  if  you  will, 
but  still  a  deity ! 

"Have  some  strawberries,  little  girl,"  purred  the 
Baron.  He  rose  to  fetch  the  basket  from  the  side  table 
—  a  white  marble  slab  supported  by  green-bronze  fauns  — 
and  began  to  pick  the  largest  fruit  into  a  green  majolica 
platter;  his  voice  trickling  on  complacently,  though  a 
furtive  glance  or  two  satisfied  him  that  the  girl  was  chok- 
ing down  her  tears:  "I  always  think  these  hothouse 
strawberries  have  the  best  flavour.  Everything  is  the 
better  for  cultivation,  eh,  Fulvia?  Cream,  liebes  Kind, 
and  sugar?  Brown  sugar,  to  my  taste." 

Meanwhile  La  Marmora,  all  to  her  grievance,  had 
begun,  with  jeering  comment,  to  read  the  letter  of  her 
undesired  repetitor. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  109 

"'Verekrter  Herr,' — (Oh,  yes,  much  he  honours 
you,  Robecq  —  why  don't  you  show  yourself  the  master 
for  once?  You've  let  him  get  beyond  you.)  'I  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  in  saying  that  you  wish  me  to 
remain  some  time  longer  to  recruit,  and  finish  my  cure, 
before  joining  you.'  (You  wrote  him  that,  did  you?)" 
An  ironical  smile  twisted  her  mouth;  she  turned  and 
strove  in  vain  to  catch  his  eye  as  he  sifted  sugar  over  the  se- 
lected strawberries.  "Robecq,  what  did  you  call  yourself 
just  now  —  ein  alter  Narr?"  As  she  swept  her  eyes 
away  from  him  back  to  the  letter,  they  rested  a  second 
vindictively  on  her  daughter's  bent  head;  then  she  pro- 
ceeded in  a  higher  and  still  harsher  key:  "I  have  had 
news  that  decides  me  to  come  to  England  at  once. 
Ergebenst,  F.  Meyer.'  Decides  him!  Ergebenst!  I  like 
that!  News?  He's  had  news!"  Again  the  flaming 
glance  sought  her  daughter.  "Ah,  mais,  c'est  un  far- 
ceur! And  if  I  choose  to  say,  I  won't  have  him  about 
me  till  he's  wanted,  what  then,  Monsieur  le  Baron?" 

"Why,  then,  my  dear,  you'll  be  the  greatest  fool  of  us 
three,"  he  responded  tranquilly;  he  slipped  the  plate 
before  the  girl  as  he  spoke:  "To  please  me,  Miss  Fifi," 
he  coaxed  —  "na  —  never  mind  fork  or  spoon  —  in  your 
own  pretty  fingers!" 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  the  prima  donna  and  rose 
abruptly.  Even  as  she  rose  she  stiffened  into  an  attitude 
of  petrified  astonishment. 

One  of  the  pert  parlourmaids,  whose  flying  white 
streamers  and  befrilled  aprons  were  so  ludicrously  out  of 
tone  with  these  classic  haunts,  had  just  drawn  aside  the 
heavy  purple  hanging  that  separated  the  reception  room 


110  PANTHER'S    CUB 

from  the  dining  hall.  In  the  aperture  stood  a  man, 
looking  in  upon  them. 

A  man,  large  of  build  though  bent  a  little  from  the 
shoulders,  with  a  leonine  head  of  white  hair,  and  massive 
features  hewn  as  out  of  rock.  About  the  whole  figure 
was  the  majesty  of  age,  but  none  of  its  decadence.  His 
great  bowed  figure,  the  lines  of  his  countenance,  above 
all  the  look  in  the  eyes,  spoke  of  one  old  in  suffering  and 
in  endurance,  rather  than  in  actual  years. 

When  he  had  first  beheld  him,  Robecq  had  recognized 
in  those  steadfast  eyes,  the  glance,  as  he  phrased  it, 
of  the  tamer.  No  doubt  it  was  through  this  gaze  that 
Fritz  Meyer  imposed  his  authority.  Even  those  to  whom 
he  could  only  be  "the  old  repetitor,"  had  a  way  of  defer- 
ring to  him  when  under  the  spell  of  his  glance.  But  it 
would  have  needed  a  soul  more  akin  to  his  own  than  any 
he  was  like  to  meet  in  his  present  life,  to  understand  what 
lay  behind  it. 

"Fritz!"  cried  La  Marmora,  with  a  quaver  in  her 
voice. 

"Hullo!"  ejaculated  the  Baron.  He  strove  to  be 
jovial,  but  the  ejaculation  rang  somewhat  flat. 

Fifi's  high  young  tones  made  no  disguise  of  her  dismay : 

"Oh,  dear  —  Fritz  already!" 

"Mr.  Meyer,"  announced  the  pert  parlourmaid  after 
a  prolonged  interval  of  observation  —  the  ways  of  the 
opera  singer's  household  were  a  constant  source  of  excite- 
ment, not  unmixed  with  contempt  to  her  and  her  kin. 
She  dropped  the  purple  curtain  and  departed  with  the 
flounce  she  considered  her  duty  to  bestow  upon  a  mis- 
tress so  far  removed  from  gentility. 


IV 

THE  REPETITOR 

THE  newcomer  took  a  few  heavy  paces  forward;  and 
then  it  was  perceived  that  he  walked  with  difficulty, 
leaning  upon  a  crutchstick.  He  paused  suddenly,  closed 
his  eyes  and  reeled  very  slightly.  Immediately  the 
impresario,  with  an  exclamation  of  anxiety,  was  by  his 
side: 

"  Good  heavens  —  Meyer  —  my  dear  friend,  you're 
ill !  Tut,  tut !  You'd  no  business  to  travel  in  this  state  — 
Sit  down!  Good  God,  man,"  his  eye  fell  on  a  swollen 
bandaged  foot  encased  in  a  huge  black-cloth  slipper, 
"you'll  have  phlebitis,  as  sure  as  fate!  Miss  Fifi — " 
hardly  ever  had  they  heard  the  deliberate  Baron  speak 
so  sharply,  "  if  there's  a  footstool  in  this  —  in  this  damn 
fool  of  a  place,"  he  cast  a  furious  glance  at  the  marble 
nudeness  of  the  room,  "  bring  it  along,  quick ! " 

"A  glass  of  wine  .  .  ."  suggested  the  singer, 
faltering  and  oddly  subdued. 

"No,"  almost  snarled  her  manager,  "wine  with  inflam- 
matory gout!  Murder!  Some  brandy  and  water, 
weak." 

Under  his  guidance  the  repetitor  sank  into  a  classic 
chair;  and,  with  a  rush  of  young  feet,  Fifi  plunged  into 
the  inner  room,  to  return  with  an  armful  of  cushions. 
The  gray  head  was  bent  forward  on  the  great  chest. 

Ill 


112  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Is  he  faint?"  whispered  the  girl,  terrified;  a 
nip  of  remorse  was  at  her  heart.  Fritz  had  always 
meant  so  well  by  her  —  had  she  hurt  him  ?  Had  he 
marked  her  ungracious  greeting?  She  dropped  on  her 
knees. 

" Child,  don't  touch  the  foot!"  almost  screamed 
Robecq. 

"Oh,  Fritz!".  .  .  she  cried,  and  caught  the  pendant, 
livid  hand. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her.  No,  he  was  not  faint,  for  there  was 
illimitable  strength  of  sorrow  in  those  eyes. 

"Fritz!  Fritz!"  she  exclaimed  again,  and  scarcely 
knew  why  she  should  feel  herself  so  stricken  with  remorse, 
so  heartless,  so  ungrateful.  Crouching  closer  against 
his  chair,  she  burst  into  tears.  He  disengaged  his  hand 
to  lay  it  on  her  head. 

"  Will  you  drink  this  ?  "  said  Fulvia  with  that  unwonted, 
strange  uncertainty  of  manner. 

"Thank  you,  Madame,  I  will  not  drink."  They  were 
the  first  words  he  had  spoken  since  his  entrance. 

"  My  dear  friend  — "  Robecq  was  beginning  to  pro- 
test. He  stretched  out  his  hand  impatiently  for  the 
glass.  But  La  Marmora  flung  a  dark  and  furtive  look 
at  him. 

"  It's  no  use,"  she  whispered  angrily,  and  set  the  glass 
behind  her  on  the  marble  slab. 

Meyer  grasped  the  edge  of  the  table  with  one  hand 
and  his  stick  with  the  other  preparatory  to  the  effort  of 
wrenching  himself  up  from  his  seat.  Robecq,  his  unusual 
agitation  subsiding,  measured  him  thoughtfully. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  113 

"  Aber,  du  lieber,"  he  admonished,  "  aber  mein  bester  — 
you're  not  in  a  state  to  move.  You  ought  to  be  in  bed! 
Fulvia,  get  one  of  those  impossible  maids  of  yours  to 
prepare  a  room  directly." 

"No,"  said  Meyer. 

His  voice  rang  out  with  such  unexpected  force  and 
decision  that  all  three  started,  and  Fifi  sat  back  on  her 
heels,  pushing  the  hair  back  from  her  wet  face  to  stare. 
Slowly  La  Marmora  crimsoned.  She  walked  away 
from  them  toward  one  of  the  archways  and  leaned  against 
a  pillar,  looking  out  upon  the  green. 

The  repetitor  made  another  attempt,  this  time  suc- 
cessful, to  rise  to  his  feet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  quietly  then,  "for  making 
a  disturbance.  I  felt  I  must  come  straight  to  you,  just 
to  see  —  "  he  paused  for  a  scarcely  appreciable  moment 
and  let  his  gaze  fall  on  the  girl  crouching  before  him  — 
"  to  see  that  all  was  well  with  you  here.  A  cab  is  wait- 
ing with  my  luggage.  I  go  to  the  Inn." 

Though  he  knew  it  was  futile,  the  Baron  again 
attempted  expostulation.  An  inn!  An  English  inn! 
And  his  friend  in  such  case!  And  his  health  so  import- 
ant to  them  all !  And  Salome  —  Salome  upon  them 
before  they  knew  where  they  were! 

"  And  if  you're  ill  —  for  I  fear  you'll  pay  for  this  — 
was  ever  creature  so  obstinate!  If  you're  ill,  where  are 
we?  For  our  sakes,  most  excellent  Meyer,  stay  here 
and  be  nursed." 

"It  is  impossible,"  answered  the  other  shortly. 
"  Madame  —  "  as  if  impelled  against  her  will,  the  singer 
turned  upon  the  word  —  "  I  shall  have  the  honour  of 


114  PANTHER'S    CUB 

presenting  myself  for  repetition  as  soon  as  the  Herr  Baron 
thinks  it  necessary." 

"  Only  don't  get  ill,"  she  answered  fretfully. 

He  made  her  a  little  bow,  without  speaking.  It  was 
so  courteous  that  it  was  almost  a  rebuke.  Then,  once 
more,  he  looked  at  Fifi :  "  Na  —  and  will  you  come 
and  see  the  old  man  at  the  Inn  ?  " 

She  sprang  and  clung  to  the  hand  that  held  the  stick. 
He  looked  so  ill,  her  poor  old  Fritz,  with  his  gray,  lined 
face!  There  were  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead. 
His  foot  must  be  hurting  him  dreadfully,  and  she  had 
been  so  unkind! 

Panther's  Cub  had  a  heart  and  it  smote  her. 

"  I'll  come  this  evening !  Every  evening  —  just  as 
always ! "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Fritz,  don't  be  ill ! " 

Nearly  the  same  words  as  her  mother's;  but  with 
what  different  solicitude! 

The  old  man  smiled ;  then  he  turned  and  began  to  move 
painfully  and  slowly  toward  the  entrance. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Robecq.  "Here,  let  me  take 
you,  on  this  side,  under  the  armpit  —  my  dear,  dear 
Fritz!  It's  straight  to  bed  with  you;  and  I'm  dashed  — " 
the  Baron  rarely  swore,  but  when  he  did  he  was  extra- 
ordinarily emphatic  —  "if  I  don't  motor  up  to  London 
and  bring  down  a  specialist  and  a  nurse  for  you  this  very 
evening ! " 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  A  nurse  was  secured. 
A  specialist  was  duly  kidnapped  and  brought  down; 
something  puzzled,  and  a  little  offended  at  finding 
that  the  object  was  nothing  but  a  shabby  old  German 


PANTHER'S    CUB  115 

musician,  laid  up  in  a  stuffy  roadside-inn  room.  Robecq's 
solemn  asseveration  that  the  man  was  more  precious  to 
him  than  gold,  that  it  was  a  matter  almost  of  life  and 
death  to  his  enterprise,  that  it  was  as  important  to  set 
this  Meyer  on  foot  as  to  preserve  his  famous  singer  in 
voice,  failed  to  convince  the  great  Harley  Street  oracle. 
If  it  had  been  Madame  la  Marmora  herself  whom  he  had 
been  requested  to  attend,  the  expedition  would  have 
been  more  interesting,  certainly.  But  he  was  willing 
to  make  allowances  for  the  proverbial  excitability  of 
foreigners;  and  on  examination,  found  the  patient  ill 
enough  to  awaken  some  professional  zeal. 

Mr.  Meyer  accepted  the  unsolicited  attentions  with 
perfect  simplicity,  and  promised  obedience  to  instructions. 
Sir  James  looked  very  grave  and  shook  his  head  over 
the  Baron's  reiterated  asseveration  that  their  good 
Meyer  must  somehow  or  other  be  up  and  about  in  a  fort- 
night at  latest.  There  was  fever,  there  was,  as  the  impre- 
sario had  himself  surmised,  venal  inflammation.  These 
cases  were  slow,  and  depended  on  individual  tempera- 
ment. It  was  impossible  to  pronounce. 

Robecq  sent  the  great  man  home  in  his  own  motor, 
and  returned  disconsolately  to  Fritz's  bedside. 

"Now,  here's  a  pretty  thing,  Fritz!"  he  cried,  with 
almost  a  sound  of  tears  in  his  drawl. 

The  old  man  turned  his  drawn  face  on  the  pillow  to 
look  at  his  manager. 

"Do  not  fret,  Herr  Baron,"  he  said  with  conviction, 
"  I  shall  not  fail  to  the  work." 

"Well,"  said  the  Baron,  brightening.  "I've  never 
known  you  fail  yet." 


116  PANTHER'S    CUB 

In  the  evening,  as  she  had  promised,  came  Fifi.  She 
ran  down  through  the  grounds  —  it  was  only  some 
five  minutes'  walk  —  still  in  the  rough  white  serge  in 
which  Meyer  had  seen  her  that  afternoon.  Her  hair 
was  loosened  by  the  wind  and  the  long  day's  exercise. 
She  sprang  in,  with  her  usual  impetuous  leap,  and  roused 
him  from  a  heavy  doze  in  which  he  had  fallen  under 
the  effect  of  the  drugs,  which  it  had  been  Robecq's  busi- 
jiess  to  see  promptly  delivered. 

"  Is  that  my  little  child  ?  "  he  asked  rather  hoarsely. 

She  came  on  tiptoe  and  stood  beside  the  bed.  In  the 
dim  light  of  the  solitary  candle  her  eyes  widened  upon 
him  with  the  awed  pity  of  a  child.  "The  Baron  says 
I'm  not  to  touch  you,"  she  whispered.  "He  says  it 
half  kills  people  to  touch  them,  when  they  have  gout." 

"  Kneel  down,"  said  the  man, "  and  let  me  see  your  face." 

She  knelt.  He  moved  the  candle  forward,  and  his 
•eyes,  dilated  with  fever,  circled  with  pain,  fixed  them- 
selves long  and  searchingly  upon  the  flushed  face.  Then 
he  glanced  down  at  the  earth-stained  hands  that  lay 
clasped  upon  his  sheet,  and  encircled  them  with  his  own. 

*  Ach !    Always  the  tomboy ! " 

He  was  wont  to  scold  her  for  this;  but  to-night  he 
spoke  the  words  like  an  indulgent  caress,  almost  as  a 
joyful  discovery.  Then  he  laid  his  fevered  finger  against 
her  cheek. 

"J5»  war  mir  so  bang  —  I  was  so  afraid  when  I  heard 
that  the  little  girl  had  escaped  from  school. " 

"  But  it  was  to  go  to  Mama  —  and  I  am  not  a  little 
girl  any  more  —  Afraid,  when  I  was  with  my  mama  ?  " 

The  sick  man  sighed. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  117 

44  No,  you  are  no  longer  a  little  girL  Haf  TOO  been 
good,Fm?- 

She  answered  him  "yes";  though  there  was  an 
unwonted  sense  of  unreasonable  gnOt,  a  wdg,ht  at  her 
heart  as  she  did  so.  Why  did  she  not  want  to  tefl  him 
about  Lord  Desmond  and  all  the  wonderful  new  thoughts 
that  circled  round  him  in  her  mind?  Why  was  she 
almost  glad  —  nay,  quite  glad  —  that  Fritz  should  be 
kept  to  his  bed,  and  unable  to  find  out  anything  jet,  for 
many  a  long  free  day  to  come?  The  consciousness  of 
her  own  hidden  baseness  lent  an  extra  tenderness  to  her 
ncsrt  wows ; 

"Darting  old  Fritz,  I  am  so  sorry  you're  in  pain.  Why 
did  you  travel?" 

"To  make  sure  that  yon  were  safe." 

It  was  Fritz's  way  to  fuss  over  her,  she  knew;  but  he 
had  never  spoken  so  openly  of  his  self-appointed  guard- 
ianship. She  resented  it  as  much  as  her  real  tenderness 
of  heart  would  allow  her  to  resent  anything  to-night 
from  the  sick  old  man  who  loved  her. 

"But,  Fritz * 

"Have  you  said  your  prayers  every  lught  ?" 

Her  laugh  rang  out: 

"Of  course,  of  course,  old  stupid!** 

It  was  a  relief  to  be  able  to  reassure  him  in  complete 
truthfulness.  For  rarely  indeed  had  Fifi  prayed  so 
earnestly  as  after  those  troubling,  delightful  evenings, 
with  the  memory  of  the  blue  eyes  in  her  soul! 

**You  used  to  pray  at  my  knee,"  Meyer  went  on 
dreamily. 

She  thought  he  was  wandering  a  little;  she  had  never 


118  PANTHER'S    CUB 

known  him  like  this  before;  his  face  was  gray  on  the 
pillow,  his  touch  was  burning. 

"I  will  say  them  beside  you  now,"  she  cried  on  an 
inspiration.  "And  after  that  you  must  sleep.  Your 
grand  nurse  with  the  cap  told  me  I  must  not  stay  long." 

She  said  them  then,  her  child's  prayers  that  he  himself 
had  taught  her.  And  when  she  had  done,  unconsciously 
as  in  the  old  days,  she  offered  him  her  forehead  for  his 
kiss.  He  had  not  kissed  her  since  her  confirmation  in 
the  German  school.  Now  he  did  so,  solemnly,  like  one 
who  blesses.  After  that,  with  a  deep  sigh: 

"I  will  sleep,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  face  toward 
the  wall. 

As  she  looked  back  from  the  threshold  upon  the  gray 
head,  she  thought,  so  still  he  lay,  he  was  already  asleep. 
Then  she  flew  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow,  through  the 
dews  and  the  shadows  and  scents  of  the  gardens.  She 
was  in  haste  to  make  herself  beautiful  —  for  she  never 
knew  what  guests  her  mother  might  have,  and  as  the 
Baron  was  sure,  as  usual,  to  ask  for  her  in  the  evening, 
perhaps  "he"  might  be  among  them.  Even  if  they 
had  not  a  word  apart  together,  their  eyes  would  meet; 
she  had  learned  —  in  how  short  a  time !  —  to  seek  and 
find  the  deep  kindling  of  those  slow  blue  eyes;  to  feel 
that  it  was  for  her  alone. 


SIR  JOSEPH  looked  about  him  with  almost  apprehensive 
curiosity.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  found  himself 
in  what  he  considered  a  questionable  situation ;  and  every 
instinct  of  his  middle-class,  conventional  mind  revolted 
against  it.  He  stood  clutching  his  top-hat  as  if  by  it  he 
held  on  to  his  endangered  respectability;  and,  awestruck, 
he  watched  the  serious  composure  with  which  Mr.  Vere 
Hamilton,  his  introducer,  trod  the  marble  floor  of  the 
reception  room  —  it  was  adjacent  and  similar  to  the  hall 
of  feasts  —  and  sat  neatly  down  upon  the  couch  that  held 
the  centre  of  this  fantastic  apartment. 

It  was  a  couch  raised  upon  a  dais,  canopied  with  green 
silk,  covered  with  a  huge  white  bear  skin  —  suggestive  of 
Cleopatra  or  Helen,  or  Heaven  knew  what  other  repre- 
hensive  female  with  whom  even  the  most  virtuous  English- 
man cannot  help  having  a  school-book  acquaintance. 

"  So,  here  you  are,  my  dear  Sir  Joseph,  in  Branksome 
Cottage,"  said  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton  in  his  pleasant  way. 
"Branksome  Cottage!"  he  repeated,  lingering  over  the 
word  in  amiable  philosophic  appreciation.  "Dear,  dear 
—  when  I  think  that  I  knew  it  in  its  days  of  dimity  and 
decorum,  when  my  kind  old  friend,  Lady  Margaret 
Branksome  used  to  give  her  quiet  little  week-end  parties ! 
As  Lord  Charles  was  saying  to  me  the  other  day,  it  would 

119 


120  PANTHER'S    CUB 

be  enough  to  make  her  turn  in  her  grave  to  see  what  that 
Mrs.  Orris  has  made  of  her  favourite  retreat.  —  You 
might  as  well  sit  down,  Sir  Joseph.  —  Circe's  couch ! " 
He  tapped  the  bear  skin  invitingly. 

Sir  Joseph,  who  was  approaching  gingerly,  started 
back. 

"Circe!"  he  exclaimed  in  tones  of  horror.  He  could 
not  for  the  moment  remember  what  he  had  once  read 
about  that  character;  but  he  was  quite  sure  she  must 
be  a  very  improper  goddess  indeed,  to  be  mentioned  in 
such  a  connection.  "Mr.  Hamilton,"  he  proceeded,  "I 
—  I  was  not  prepared  —  Mr.  Hamilton,  when  I  entered 
these  —  purlieus  — " 

The  little  beaver  gentleman  was  shaken  by  gentle 
laughter. 

"My  dear  sir,  "his  tone  was  soothing,  "pray  do  not 
be  alarmed.  My  acquaintance  with  the  lady  is  no 
greater  than  your  own;  but  I  venture  to  assure  you  that 
everything  will  be  conducted  here,  to-day,  with  the  utmost 
propriety.  I  understand  indeed  that  Madame  la  Mar- 
mora's parties  are  nothing  if  not  select.  —  Do  sit  down." 

Sir  Joseph  sidled  toward  the  couch,  and  —  the  image 
of  anxious  virtue  —  sat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  its  com- 
promising contour.  There  he  caught  a  sudden  glimpse 
of  his  own  countenance  in  a  mirror  cunningly  hidden 
in  the  drapery  of  the  canopy,  and  instantly  averted  his 
eyes:  that  familiar  countenance  seemed  so  severely 
reprobative!  But  curiosity  began  to  gain  the  mastery 
over  doubt  in  the  gaze  he  presently  allowed  to  wander 
about  the  room. 

It  was  a  large  apartment  and  of  unusual  shape,  with 


PANTHER'S    CUB  121 

rounded  recesses  —  evidently  several  of  the  cottage 
parlours  thrown  into  one.  Vanished  were  the  modest 
Deflowered  papers,  vanished  the  cosy  panelling,  the  rafters 
and  window-seats,  which  had  once  made  their  charm 
in  the  eyes  of  the  old  gentlewoman.  A  silvered  ceiling, 
artfully  brightened  toward  the  centre  from  dimness  to 
lustre,  produced  an  illusive  dome-like  effect.  Translucent 
marbles  covered  the  floor,  strewn  with  huge  white  bear 
skins  here  and  there,  and,  between  alabaster  pillars,  hung 
weighty  draperies  of  faint-coloured  green  silk. 

Sir  Joseph  supposed  there  must  be  an  entrance,  since 
he  found  himself  in  the  room.  But  his  questioning  glance 
could  perceive  no  issue,  save  indeed  through  those  open 
pillared  spaces  which  seemed,  between  long  draperies, 
to  lead  on  to  a  sunlit  marble  terrace,  rose- twined, 
which  it  would  have  required  an  imagination  much 
livelier  than  his  own  to  associate  with  the  usual  riverside 
verandah. 

"  It  is  certainly  a  strange  place,"  he  remarked.  "  Strange 
place  indeed  .  .  .  like  what  the  imagination  would 
depict  as  appertaining  to  the  days  of  ancient  pagan  Rome. 
It  reminds  me,  Mr.  Hamilton,  of  those  scenes  of  revelry 

—  ah  —  revelry  and  marble  halls  —  that  certain  artists, 
with  what  has  always  appeared  to  me  questionable  taste 

—  have  rendered  familiar  to  the  public." 

"Perhaps  that  was  the  actual  source  of  Mrs.  Orris's 
inspiration,"  suggested  Hamilton,  a  little  wearily.  "  Car- 
ried out,  I  have  been  told,  in  an  incredibly  short  space 
of  time  —  and  paid  for  by  an  equally  incredible  cheque, 
signed,  it  is  whispered,  by  — 

Mr.  Hamilton  broke  off  abruptly.     The  name  'Stur- 


122  PANTHER'S    CUB 

minster'  had  actually  been  on  his  tongue,  before  he  real- 
ized the  enormity  of  the  revelation  in  such  ears. 

But  Sir  Joseph  had  raised  a  stiffly  forbidding  hand  and 
attributed  the  halt  to  that  action :  such  scandalous  whispers 
were  not  for  his  ears!  With  alacrity,  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton 
embarked  upon  a  fresh  sentence: 

"The  poor  lady  who  now  rents  these  splendours  can 
scarcely  be  aware  that  they  are  already  dubbed,  among 
her  intimates,  the  Panther's  Den." 

Sir  Joseph  started  and  rolled  upon  the  speaker  an  eye 
in  which  dismay,  reprobation  and  inquisitiveness  were 
strangely  blended.  The  Panther  .  .!  The  meaning 
sobriquet  was  not  altogether  new  to  his  ear;  but  to  hear 
the  counsellor  of  the  aristocracy,  the  man  of  all  others 
whom  anxious  mothers  consulted  upon  the  errors  of 
gilded  youths,  the  friend  of  Sir  Joseph's  own  mother-in- 
law  —  that  Boadicea  of  high-placed  British  virtue  — 
talk  in  this  tone  of  Madame  la  Marmora !  It  set  the  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament  wondering  whether  the  confidence  they 
all  placed  in  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton  was  justified. 

Now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  was  it  not  a  little  singu- 
lar (but  for  his  laboured  gentility,  the  word  in  his  mind 
would  have  been  "fishy")  that  the  invitation  to  Brank- 
some  should  have  been  so  speedily  obtained  ?  It  was 
all  very  well  to  talk  of  Mr.  Philip  Scott.  Sir  Joseph  had 
no  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Philip  Scott,  but  he  did  not 
approve  of  him;  for  though  he  knew  that  he  was  received 
in  society,  even  by  titled  families,  he  also  knew  he  was  a 
musical  critic.  The  Marchioness  did  not  receive  him. 
A  musical  critic  must,  of  necessity,  have  some  traffic 
with  Bohemian  society:  and  there  was  a  Biblical  maxim 


PANTHER'S    CUB  123 

—  which  she  was  fond  of  quoting  in  this  very  respect  — 
anent  the  touching  of  pitch.  Was  Mr.  Hamilton,  per- 
chance, no  more  fit  to  be  received  into  their  midst  than 
his  friend,  Mr.  Scott  ? 

But,  all  unconscious,  the  object  of  these  uneasy  specu- 
lations pursued  his  reflections  aloud: 

"I  asked  Mr.  Scott,"  he  went  on,  leaning  back,  with 
what  to  the  other  seemed  undue  and  ghastly  nonchalance, 
"why  his  talented  friend  did  not  drop  the  'Cottage' 
and  call  it  Villa  la  Marmora,  during  her  tenancy,  and  so 
cheat  us  into  the  belief  that  the  waters  outside  were  of 
some  fair  Italian  lake,  not  of  prosy  Thames?  But 
Scott  assures  me  that,  like  Mrs.  Orris  herself,  she  revels 
in  contrast " 

Sir  Joseph  was  unable  to  follow  the  gentle  divagations 
of  his  companion's  mind;  but  he  felt  that  it  would  ill 
become  a  man  of  his  position  to  make  himself  so  much 
at  home  in  Corinthian  halls.  It  was  rather  hard  upon 
him,  he  considered,  after  forty  years  of  unblemished 
propriety,  that  the  peccadilloes  of  a  brother-in-law 
should  force  him  into  a  situation  which  might  almost 
appear  equivocal.  What  though  it  was  actually  with 
the  approval  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom;  under  the  sanction, 
nay  by  the  command,  of  that  most  high-principled  of 
great  ladies,  her  mother;  what  though  (as  Vere  Hamilton, 
who  knew  everybody,  assured  him)  quite  nice  people 
went  to  Madame  la  Marmora's  parties  ?  The  fact 
remained  that  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  found  himself 
the  guest  of  the  notorious  woman;  that  he  was  likely  to 
meet  acquaintances,  persons  in  society  who  knew  him  and 
of  him.  And  his  purpose,  I  am  here  only  to  rescue  a 


124  PANTHER'S    CUB 

noble  brother-in-law,  was  not  written  on  his  blameless 
brow.  The  world  is  a  censorious  place. 

No  hard-screwed  courage  has  ever  grown  by  waiting, 
and  Sir  Joseph  had  desperate,  if  inchoate,  resolves  in 
his  mind.  He  began  to  feel  absurdly  nervous.  The 
curious,  un-English  splendour  of  his  surroundings,  the 
subtle  fragrance  of  the  atmosphere,  the  sense  of  unpro- 
tectedness  which  these  mysterious  hangings  (behind  which 
any  one  might  be  lurking)  and  the  unholy  secretiveness 
which  the  apparently  doorless  walls  gave  to  the  apart- 
ment, began  to  oppress  him. 

He  drew  his  watch,  striving  to  hide  his  qualms  under 
the  airs  of  the  legislator  whose  time  is  valuable  not  only 
to  himself,  but  to  the  nation. 

"You  were  so  anxious  to  be  early,"  observed  Hamilton, 
in  answer  to  the  action,  "and  a  lady  of  Madame  la 
Marmora's  profession  so  invariably  takes  it  out  of  her 
friends  for  the  punctuality  the  public  demands  of  her, 
that  I  fear  you  must  arm  yourself  with  patience.  But, 
no  doubt,  some  fellow-guests  may  soon  be  expected." 

The  words  were  still  on  his  lips,  when  one  of  the  cur- 
tains between  the  alabaster  columns  was  drawn  aside, 
and  Mr.  Scott  in  person,  stout  and  smiling,  tripped 
buoyantly  toward  them.  He  was  clad  in  the  lightest  of 
spring  suits;  a  damask  rose  hung  from  his  button-hole. 
He  looked  quite  respectable,  Sir  Joseph  noticed  with 
relief  —  a  relief  which  was  further  confirmed  by  the 
geniality  of  Vere  Hamilton's  greeting.  However  little  in 
sympathy  with  him,  your  man  of  the  world — and  Hamilton 
was  eminently  that — invariably  meets  an  acquaintance  of 
long  standing  as  if  he  were  a  cherished  friend. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  125 

"  Why,  Scott,  my  dear  fellow! " 

"Glorious  afternoon,  Verie! —  You're  a  bit  early 
on  the  scene,  are  you  not?  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  hour 
was  five?  I  am  staying  here,  you  know.  The  Panther 
is  still  in  the  inner  lair  —  Blanc-de-perle,  Bloom  of  Ninon 
and  all  that." 

The  newcomer  laughed  affably,  as  if,  like  his  hostess, 
he  appreciated  the  humour  of  contrast.  But  as  he 
spoke  his  small  gray  eyes  were  shrewdly  appraising  Sir 
Joseph. 

"  We  came  early  with  a  purpose,"  said  Vere  Hamilton 
gravely.  "You  remember  I  asked  you  if  I  might  bring 
a  friend  —  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith." 

Taking  Scott  by  the  sleeve,  he  drew  him  on  one  side, 
and  began  to  speak  low  in  his  ear,  at  once  to  Sir  Joseph's 
relief  and  further  discomfort.  For,  while  he  was  glad 
that  there  should  be  no  misinterpretation  concerning  his 
visit,  his  self-consciousness  during  the  explanation  became 
painfully  acute.  Mr.  Scott's  countenance  expressed 
delighted  amusement,  tempered  with  a  certain  airy  pity. 
As  the  brief  colloquy  ended,  he  advanced  to  shake  hands 
with  the  devoted  pilgrim. 

"  Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance.  -  Used  to 
meet  Lady  Alice.  Good  Lord,  yes,  night  after  night 

.  .  .  season  after  season!  Meet  Sturminster  now 
and  again  at  the  Beefsteak.  Growing  rather  bald,  eh? 
And  how  is  the  old  lady  ?  —  grand  old  lady  that, '  Martia 
Marchioness'!—  Makes  you  all  march,  don't  she?" 

Sir  Joseph's  features  grew  ever  more  wooden  during 
this  address.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  hear  his  exalted 
relatives  thus  flippantly  commented  on.  Yet,  he  did  not 


126  PANTHER'S    CUB 

dare  to  show  open  displeasure.  For,  in  the  first  place, 
he  could  not  afford  to  fall  out  with  one  who  might  be 
useful;  and,  in  the  second,  there  was  something  impres- 
sive about  such  familiarity  of  allusion  to  those  whom, 
even  in  his  inmost  thoughts,  he  only  approached  with 
awe. 

"My  wife's,  Lady  Alice's,  mother  is  as  well  as  her 
present  anxiety  will  admit  of,"  he  now  observed,  rallying 
his  pomposity.  "  If  I  mistake  not,  my  friend,  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton here,  has  even  now  informed  you  what  a  painful 
family  dilemma  it  is  that  brings  me  into  these,  ah,  purlieus, 
Mr.  Scott." 

Hugely  pleased  was  Sir  Joseph  with  the  comprehensive 
dignity  of  this  phrase.  Scott  composed  his  pursy  mouth 
to  a  suitable  gravity,  though  his  eyes  gleamed  maliciously 
as  he  responded,  wagging  his  head: 

"Ah,  the  prodigal  son!  Queer  fellow,  Desmond! 
Always  took  a  line  of  his  own,  hasn't  he  ?  —  Naughty, 
naughty ! " 

Mr.  Scott  was  here  fain  to  relapse  into  mirth.  Turning 
toward  Hamilton,  he  took  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat 
and  shook  him  gently  backward  and  forward  in  cadence. 

"Panther's  last!  —  Positively  her  last.  God  bless  us 
all,  I  never  saw  the  creature  so  —  so,  so  enragee,  shall  we 
say  ?  Your  brother-in-law,  my  dear  —  ah  —  Sir  Joseph, 
comes  here  pretty  often,  you  know.  I've  had  oppor- 
tunities of  judging.  Good-looking  fellow,  in  his  lean, 
languid  way.  —  My  dear  Verie,"  turning  back  to 
Hamilton,  "you  should  see  the  Panther's  eyes  upon 
him  —  phosphorescent !  Green  flame,  positive  flame ! " 

"  Phos  —  green  flame     .     .     . !     How  revolting  .   .   . 


PANTHER'S    CUB  127 

how  distressing!"  ejaculated  the  horror-struck  Member 
of  Parliament. 

"The  family  are  very  anxious,"  said  Hamilton.  His 
refined  voice  rang  as  pleasantly  as  if  the  topic  had  been 
specially  agreeable  to  all  concerned.  "They  understand 
that  Lord  Desmond  has  followed  the  lady  from  Vienna. 
And  it  is  expected,  as  you  know,  my  dear  Scott,  that 
a  diplomatist  should  at  least  be  discreet  in  his  indiscretions. 
-  Lord  Desmond's  attitude,  I  believe,  when  approached 
on  the  subject  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and  looked  expectantly  toward  Sir  Joseph, 
who  thereupon,  not  without  a  gloomy  pride,  described 
his  wife's  brother's  attitude  as  callous  as  well  as  reckless 
in  the  last  degree. 

"His  mother,  his  sister,  myself,"  he  concluded,  "have 
communicated  with  him  on  the  subject  —  by  letter,  for 
he  has  so  far  refused,  absolutely  refused  to  frequent  our 
houses." 

"Lord  Desmond,"  said  Mr.  Scott,  "is  not  exactly  the 
person  to  be  driven  on  the  curb,  is  he?  Never  was  a 
steady  goer,  I  take  it.  Toujours  ombrageux,  as  our 
French  friends  have  it  —  and  now,  at  his  age " 

"Nearly  thirty-three,"  commented  Hamilton. 

"  You're  not  likely  to  get  him  in  between  the  shafts.  — 
I  fear  you  poor,  dear,  excellent,  anxious  people  are  not 
likely  to  improve  matters.  Dear,  dear,  if  relations  would 
only  now  and  again  shut  their  eyes  and  stop  their  ears, 
how  much  trouble  they  might  save  themselves  and  others ! " 

"When  matters  have  become  public  report,"  rebuked 
Sir  Joseph,  "the  policy  you  recommend,  Mr.  Scott,  were 
mere  cowardice.  It  is  a  question  of  saving  my  brother- 


128  PANTHER'S    CUB 

in-law  in  spite  of  himself.  His  whole  career  is  at  stake. 
The  position  of  a  diplomatist  is  so  important.  In  fact," 
said  Sir  Joseph,  blowing  out  his  cheeks  with  something 
of  his  best  House  manner,  "it  is  the  imminent  sense  of 
his  danger  that  has  brought  me  into  this,  ah,  this,  I  say 
this  establishment,  prepared,  if  need  be,  to  address  myself, 
ah,  to  the  .  .  .  source  of  the  mischief  itself.  —  I 
refer  to  Madame  la  Marmora." 

Vere  Hamilton  turned  his  little  mouse-gray  face,  startled, 
upon  the  speaker.  Surely  this  was  exceeding  their  man- 
date. But  Sir  Joseph's  eye  met  him  proudly.  A  minute 
ago  he  had  not  had  the  vaguest  idea  of  such  a  proceeding. 
The  threat  had  escaped  him  upon  the  tide  of  his  own 
pomposity.  But,  now  uttered,  it  had  so  fine  a  ring  of 
manly  determination  in  his  ears,  that  he  determined  to 
abide  by  it,  on  fitting  occasion.  —  Yes,  that  was  it, 
on  fitting  occasion. 

Scott  clapped  his  plump  hands  together  and  fell  upon 
the  couch  the  more  comfortably  to  indulge  in  delighted 
laughter. 

"Pick  the  Panther  off  her  prey!"  cried  he.  "May  I 
be  there  to  see!" 

Vere  Hamilton  deprecated  in  his  gentle  way: 

"  I  hardly  think,  Sir  Joseph,  that  we  are  justified  —  that 
it  would  even  be  advisable  —  I  believe,  myself,  that  when 
a  lady  of  her  description  has  one  of  these  peculiar  fancies, 
the  less  she  is  opposed  the  more  quickly  it  is  likely  to  pass." 

But  there  was  no  relenting  in  Sir  Joseph's  aspect. 

Mr.  Scott  wiped  his  eyes  and  dabbed  his  brow  expres- 
sively with  a  mauve  silk  handkerchief.  Then,  restoring 
it  to  his  pocket,  he  remarked  carelessly: 


PANTHER'S    CUB  129 

"  How  well  you  express  it,  Verie.  But,  really,  you  good 
people  are  agitating  yourselves  unnecessarily.  Fortunately, 
or  unfortunately  for  my  poor  dear  hostess  —  now  don't 
die  of  astonishment  —  Lord  Desmond  can't  endure  her." 

Both  his  hearers  exclaimed,  turning  upon  him  incredu- 
lously. Mr.  Scott's  wreathed  smile  not  unnaturally  led 
them  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  attempting  a  poor 
joke. 

"Good  gracious,  Scott!"  cried  Mr.  Hamilton. 

The  simple  expletive  showed  him  as  nearly  annoyed  as 
it  lay  in  his  amiable  nature  to  be.  —  Harmless  creature ! 
his  sole  aim  in  life  had  been  that  social  position,  which  he 
had  reached  without  any  of  the  spites,  the  envies,  the 
petty  meannesses  which  generally  accompany  such  a 
career.  He  was  never  so  nearly  moved  to  wrath  as  when 
anything  grated  upon  his  gentlemanly  ideals.  It  was  a 
look  of  approval  that  he  cast  upon  the  smirking  Scott. 

But  it  was  choler,  on  the  other  side,  that  might  be  seen 
mounting  to  Sir  Joseph's  brow  —  purple  choler;  well-nigh 
rattling,  as  you  may  see  it  mount  in  an  offended  turkey. 

"Your  levity,  sir,  is  misplaced — misplaced,"  he 
spluttered. 

"You  dear,  good  people,"  cried  the  culprit  again, 
beaming  yet  more  broadly,  "I  am  not  pulling  your  leg: 
'pon  honour,  I'm  not.  Lord  Desmond  is  bored  to  death 
by  all  Panther's  ogles  and  gambols.  He  does  not  care 
one  twopenny  curse  for  her.  The  more  she  fawns,  the 
silkier  and  the  sleeker  she  grows  with  him,  the  more 
utterly  she  bores  him.  I  positively  declare  he  loathes 
the  sight  of  her." 

There  was  conviction  in  the  words  as  well  as  in  the  tone. 


130  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Dear  Mr.  Scott,"  Sir  Joseph  exclaimed  as  this  con- 
viction was  agreeably  borne  in  upon  him,  "you  take  a 
crushing  weight  off  my  mind!" 

He  drew  a  huge  breath  as  if  the  relief  were  physical, 
both  hands  held  out  in  his  effusion.  But  Mr.  Scott  made 
no  responsive  gesture.  His  fat  fingers  were  playing  a 
jaunty,  silent  tune  on  his  fat  knees. 

Hamilton  eyed  him  askance:  he  had  known  the  critic 
many  years  already. 

"Yet  Lord  Desmond,"  he  objected,  "has  admittedly 
followed  Madame  la  Marmora  to  England ;  and  he  comes 
to  Branksome,  it  is  said,  constantly." 

"  Quite  so,  Verie,"  responded  the  other  with  unabated 
cheerfulness.  He  looked  benignly  from  Sir  Joseph  to 
Hamilton:  then  he  cackled:  "Yes,  Lord  Desmond  did 
follow  from  Vienna  to  London,  and  he  does  come  to 
Branksome.  But  it  is  —  "  he  stopped  and  shook  out 
a  triumphant  forefinger  — "  it  is  for  the  daughter  — 
for  the  girl." 

"The  girl!"  ejaculated  Hamilton,  while  Sir  Joseph 
stood  open-mouthed. 

"Didn't  you  know,"  proceeded  Scott,  "that  Panther 
has  a  cub  ?  " 

Sir  Joseph  fumbled  for  his  pocket-handkerchief;  his 
brow  was  suddenly  moist.  He  did  not  in  the  least  under- 
stand, but  a  new  sense  of  calamity  was  borne  in  upon  him. 
Hamilton's  face,  however,  clouded.  He  understood.  He 
sat  down  again  on  the  couch  beside  Scott. 

"A  girl,   the   daughter?"   he  went  on.—      "I   heard 
vaguely  there  was  a  child  in  the  background.     But  — 
but,  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  — 


PANTHER'S    CUB  131 

"The  child,  La  Marmora  vows,  is  just  seventeen. — 
An  uncommonly  well-developed  young  woman  to  pass 
for  being  barely  out  of  the  schoolroom.  She's  been  kept 
hidden  away  at  school,  certainly.  A  few  months  ago 
the  Panther  suddenly  turned  maternal,  and  sent  for  her 
cub.  That  was  at  Vienna.  That's  where  Desmond  saw 
them,  and 

Vere  Hamilton  interrupted,  pulling  at  his  neat,  pointed 
beard  with  nervous  fingers : 

"This  is  indeed  a  very  different  matter " 

"Yes  —  a  horse  of  quite  another  colour,  isn't  it?'* 
said  Scott,  charmed  at  the  concern  he  had  created. 

"Quite  another  colour  indeed,"  assented  Mr.  Hamilton, 
faintly. 

"And  much  more  likely  to  run  away  with  him,"  con- 
cluded the  other,  with  his  chuckle. 

Sir  Joseph  started.  The  last  remark  had  pricked  him 
into  a  sudden  perspicacity. 

"Run  away  with  Lord  Desmond!  Merciful  heavens, 
what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean,  my  dear  sir,  that  the  mother  might  cost  your 
brother-in-law  a  few  thousands  and  another  shred  or 

two  of  reputation.     But  the  daughter  might  cost  him 

He  paused  and  drew  a  circle  in  the  air. 

As  if  hypnotized,  the  Member  of  Parliament  bent  over 
him  and  unconsciously  imitated  the  gesture. 

"Might   cost   him  —  in   Heaven's   name   speak   out.'* 

"A  wedding  ring,"  chuckled  Philip  Scott. 

Sir  Joseph  exploded:  "A  wedding  ring! —  Mon- 
strous!" He  turned  to  Hamilton.  He  could  no  longer 
address  personally  one  who  had  been  guilty  of  this  out- 


138  PANTHER'S    CUB 

rageous  suggestion.  "Would  Mr.  Scott  have  us  believe, 
Mr.  Hamilton,  that  mj  brother-in-law,  Lord  Desmond, 
could  be  so  unprincipled,  so  lost  to  every  sense  of  honour, 
to  what  is  due  to  his  family,  to  himself,  to  society,  as  to 
contemplate  marriage  —  marriage  with  such  a  —  such  a 
young  person?" 

"Not  necessarily.  -  Possibly,''  said  Mr.  Scott.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders:  seldom  had  a  situation  appealed 
to  his  sense  of  humour  more  completely.  With  a  groan, 
the  Baronet  let  himself  drop  upon  the  white  bear  skin 
beside  the  two. 

"Poor  Lady  Alice,  my  poor  wife  .  .  .!  The 
Marchioness  —  my  poor  mother-in-law,  none  of  us  had 
any  idea  of  this!"  he  murmured.  "It's  —  it's  horrible," 
he  groaned.  "To  marry  the  girl " 

"Not  necessarily;  but  possibly,"  soothed  Scott  again. 
"Of  one  thing,  yon  may  be  sure,  my  dear  Sir  Joseph, 
yon  wiD  have  a  powerful  aHy  in  La  Marmora  herself. 
She's  not  going  to  allow  her  cub  to  snap  her  own  chosen 
morseL" 

He  paused  and  laughed  with  something  of  the  soft 
unctuous  note  of  the  reflective  starling. 

"Funny  thing,"  he  resumed;  "the  situation  has  not 
even  dawned  upon  poor,  dear  Ful  via  yet.  She  thinks 
your  handsome  brother-in-law  comes  here  for  her,  ha, 
ha!"  He  emphasized  his  appreciation  of  the  joke  by 
a  finger-pat  against  Sir  Joseph's  rigid  knee.  "So  accus- 
tomed, you  know,  to  being  the  magnet,  and  all  that. 
Else  she'd  not  keep  Miss  Fffi  a  moment  longer  on  the  scene, 
even  for  her  own  little  plan  —  which,  Sir  Joseph,  I  may 
pieaenlly  unfold  for  your  consolation.  —  Surely  I  hear 


PANTHER'S    CUB  133 

a  motor.  Perhaps  the  naughty  diplomat.  His  chauffeur 
must  be  familiar  with  the  road  to  Branksome." 

"Oh,  Hamilton,"  cried  Sir  Joseph,  looking  across 
Scott's  rounded  outline,  toward  his  sympathetic  friend. 
"This  is  worse,  much  worse,  than  we  anticipated!" 

"Tut,  tut!''  interposed  Scott  before  the  other  could 
think  of  a  suitable  reply.  "Buck  up!  Our  friend  is 
very  far  from  buying  a  wedding  ring  yet.  I'll  swear  the 
thought  has  not  even  crossed  his  mind.  Come,  we'll 
all  stand  by  you.  —  I'd  do  it  for  poor,  dear  Panther's 
sake  alone,"  he  added  sentimentally.  "Between  our- 
selves, I  can't  endure  Cub." 

There  was  the  beat  of  a  slow  footstep  against  the 
marble.  A  tall  man  appeared  between  the  green  silk 
curtains,  and  stood  looking  with  a  sardonic  smile  at  the 
three  gentlemen  seated  side  by  side  upon  the  Greek 
couch  under  the  canopy. 

"The  three  graces!"  he  said  presently,  with  jeering 
nonchalance.  "Why.  Joseph!  Joseph?  It's  never 
Joseph  ...  in  the  Venusberg!" 

Two  of  the  trio  rose  discountenanced,  each  in  his  own 
way ;  while  Scott  lolled  and  smiled  a  trifle  one-sidedly.  — 
He  did  not  much  care  for  other  people's  jokes. 

The  newcomer  advanced.  The  smile  was  still  on  his 
lips,  but  his  eyes  were  not  friendly. 


VI 

GOSSIP 

MR.  VERB  HAMILTON  looked  with  interest  at  Lord 
Desmond  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many  years ;  not,  in 
fact,  since  the  latter's  undergraduate  days.  As  he  looked, 
he  recalled  their  last  meeting.  Yes,  it  was  in  the  late 
Marquis's  time,  on  an  autumn  visit  to  Sturminster.  He 
remembered  how  he  had  liked  the  boy.  They  had  had 
a  certain  long  ride  together  in  the  woods.  He  had  been 
struck  by  his  companion's  freshness  of  mind,  his  enthusi- 
asm, high  spirits;  by  the  nobility — Vere  Hamilton  was 
a  man  to  appreciate  nobility  in  any  form  —  of  his  out- 
look on  life.  "He'll  be  a  credit  to  his  race,"  he  had 
told  himself  pleasantly. 

As  he  now  looked,  he  found  it  difficult  to  trace 
any  connection  between  past  and  present;  between 
the  dashing,  enthusiastic  boy,  and  the  man  before 
him. 

Sixteen  years  was  certainly  a  long  time;  but  it  did 
not  seem  natural  to  Hamilton  —  who  was  himself,  at 
sixty,  much  the  same  guileless,  precise,  tuft-hunting  little 
gentleman  he  had  been  at  twenty  —  that  the  mere  passage 
of  time  could  cause  so  much  alteration.  Handsome  the 
man  was,  as  the  boy  had  been;  and  the  crisp  wave  of 
the  hair  over  the  low,  wide  forehead  was  the  same;  but 
the  colour  had  gone  out  of  it,  as  indeed  out  of  the  whole 

134 


PANTHER'S    CUB  135 

personality;  and  it  lay  dull-dark  and  gray-streaked  against 
the  pallid  darkness  of  the  face. 

For  the  rest,  in  spite  of  a  well-knit  frame  and  broad 
shoulders,  the  general  effect  of  figure  as  well  as  of  coun- 
tenance was  one  of  extreme  languor.  When  he  spoke, 
however,  the  lines  of  the  face  were  mocking;  they  betrayed 
also  a  latent  bitterness.  The  eyes,  blue  between  thick 
black  lashes,  eyes  which  Hamilton  had  remembered  as 
singularly  brilliant,  had  now  no  light  in  them.  The 
smile  showed  white  teeth,  but  rarely  merriment.  Down  to 
the  long  pale  hands,  all  told  the  kindly  man  of  the  world, 
whose  own  existence  had  been,  and  was  still,  replete  with 
harmless  interests,  that  here  was  one  whom  a  Frenchman 
would  have  summed  up  in  a  single  phrase:  "il  a  vecu." 

Vere  Hamilton  would  not  have  been  Vere  Hamilton, 
had  he  not  seized  the  opportunity  to  reintroduce  himself 
as  a  friend  of  the  family. 

"I  have  not  forgotten  our  rides  in  the  New  Forest, 
Lord  Desmond,"  said  he. 

Lord   Desmond   shook  hands  loosely,  with  a  vague: 

"Ah,  really  — really?" 

And  Hamilton  fell  back  with  an  uneasy  smile  of  the 
rebuffed. 

Yet  rebuff  was  as  far  from  the  diplomatist's  thoughts 
as  cordiality  itself.  He  was  merely  slipping  through  his 
part  in  the  social  play  with  as  little  trouble  as  possible. 
He  now  flung  himself  upon  the  nearest  chair,  acknow- 
ledged Mr.  Scott's  familiar  wave  of  greeting  with  a  jerk 
of  the  head,  and  turned  his  glances  and  his  mocking 
smile  in  the  direction  of  his  brother-in-law. 

"  Three  Graces  did  I  say  ?  the  three  goddesses  rather  — 


136  PANTHER'S    CUB 

to  whom  shall  Paris  give  the  apple?  What  will  you  do 
with  it,  my  fair  Joseph  ? "  he  asked. 

"  The  apple ?  "  stammered  Sir  Joseph. 

He  had  been  making  furtive  signals  of  distress  to 
Hamilton.  But,  as  the  latter  showed  no  response,  the 
baronet  drew  a  long  breath  of  resolve;  and  ignoring  the 
prodigal's  further  taunting  suggestion;  "Forbidden  fruit, 
eh?"  strutted  up  to  him,  bent  over  his  chair,  and  sepul- 
chrally  whispered : 

"  Do  you  think  this  is  a  nice  place  for  you  —  Lord 
Desmond  Brooke  —  to  be  seen  at  ?  " 

"Well,  Joe,  and  what  is  your  opinion  on  the  point? 
Ah  —  what  would  my  good  sister,  Alice,  say  —  and  what 
the  constituents  ?  Oh,  Joe ! " 

Sir  Joseph  broke  into  a  cold  sweat  in  spite  of  the  oppres- 
sive heat  of  the  day.  His  tormentor  went  on,  without 
the  smallest  attempt  at  lowering  his  drawling  accents 
or  concealing  his  mockery. 

"  Often  come  here,  Joseph  ?  Strange  we  never  should 
have  met  before." 

Mr.  Scott  sniggered  aloud,  while  Hamilton  discreetly 
abstracted  his  attention.  St.  Lawrence  could  not  have 
felt  more  uneasy  on  his  grid  than  did  the  pompous  Member 
of  Parliament. 

"You  are  very  well  aware,  Desmond,"  he  began,  in 
blustering  rebuke,  "what  unfortunate  circumstances 
bring  me  to  this  house.  Nothing  but  my  sense  of  duty 
to  the  family,  to  my  —  my  —  to  your  —  "  he  broke  off, 
to  resume  feebly:  "We  are  very  unhappy!  The  family 
is  very  unhappy,  Desmond.  .  .  .  And  you  know 
very  well  that  I've  never  been  here  before." 


PANTHER 'S    CUB  137 

"Never  mind,"  said  Lord  Desmond,  leaning  back  and 
yawning.  "You'll  come  again,  Tannhauser,  when  you 
find  how  thrilling  it  is  in  the  grotto,  and  how  much  more 
pleasant  Venus  is  than  .  .  Alice." 

"Alice  .  .  .!"  gasped  the  husband,  unable  to 
credit  the  possibility  of  such  blasphemy. 

"  I  mean  —  Elizabeth,  of  course,"  said  his  brother- 
in-law  imperturbably. 

Scott  laughed  again;  and  the  kindly  Hamilton,  pity- 
ing Sir  Joseph's  agony  of  bewilderment  and  impotent 
resentment,  intervened  with  somewhat  forced  naivete: 

"  Must  we  all  explain  our  reasons  for  coming  to  Brank- 
some?  Our  hostess  gives  very  pleasant  garden  parties, 
I  understand.  I  expect  to  meet  many  of  my  friends,  and 
besides  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  celebrated  artist." 

Scott  broke  in,  with  his  starling  chuckle. 

"Let  me  not  be  behind  Verie  in  unfolding  the  moral 
passport.  I  might  plead,  as  musical  critic,  that  I  am 
bound  to  penetrate  these,  aha!  grottoes  occasionally. 
But  I  will  be  candid.  La  Marmora's  got  a  splendid 
chef;  I  never  refuse  an  invitation  to  Branksome.  You 
see,  my  reason  lies  in  a  nutshell." 

"Is  that  what  you  call  it?"  asked  Desmond,  with  a 
slight  glance  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Scott's  garden-party 
waistcoat. 

Mr.  Scott  glared  at  the  speaker's  countenance  with 
sudden  vindictiveness ;  but  was  baffled  by  its  imper- 
turbability, not  to  say  blankness. 

"Wait,  my  superior  friend,  wait,"  angrily  he  apostro- 
phized the  diplomatist  in  his  mind ;  "  and  if  I  do  not  ruffle 
that  aristocratic  languor  of  yours  before  long ! " 


138  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"I  assure  you,  Mr. — "  The  effort  to  recollect  the 
name  of  one  of  such  recent  acquaintance,  was  evidently 
too  much  for  Lord  Desmond.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, as  if  inviting  him  to  fill  up  the  hiatus  —  and  pur- 
sued with  his  mirthless  smile: 

"I  assure  you  that  I  don't  see  why  any  one  need  explain 
his  reasons  for  coming  here.  Least  of  all,  Sir  Joseph  — • 
Oh,  no,  Joseph,  I  beg  —  I  beg,  do  not  explain !  Why 
distress  yourself  this  way,  my  dear  fellow  ?  " 

"Don't  explain,  Sir  Joseph,"  said  Scott,  extending 
his  curves  more  gracefully  and  comfortably  on  the  classic 
couch,  and  proceeding  to  select  a  cigar. 

Sir  Joseph,  turning  upon  him  with  all  the  exaspera- 
tion he  dared  not  vent  upon  his  aristocratic  brother-in- 
law,  was  met  by  the  smiling  proffer  of  the  open  case. 
His  splutter  was  cut  short  through  sheer  inability  to  meet 
the  situation,  and  he  tamely  took  a  cigar.  This,  however, 
he  continued  to  stare  at  with  an  air  of  abstract  horror, 
until  Scott,  voluptuously  drawing  the  first  puff,  noted 
his  attitude. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  it,  Sir  Joseph,"  he  said.  "They're 
from  Robecq's  own  cabinet.  Ah,  I  always  make  a  point 
of  filling  my  case  here  —  best  cigars  in  Europe." 

As  he  spoke,  he  offered  one  to  Lord  Desmond.  The 
latter  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  case,  and  then,  through 
his  heavy  lids  at  the  easy  gentleman's  countenance,  and 
said: 

"Thanks,  I  prefer  my  own." 

"May  I  sample  one?"  interposed  Hamilton,  as  usual 
ready  to  cover  the  moment's  tension.  (Poor  old  Scott 
might  not  be  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  but  really  he 


139 

meant  well.  .  .  .  Lord  Desmond's  manner  was 
almost  disagreeable  .  .  .  doubtless  only  manner.) 
"You  mean,  of  course,  Robecq  the  financier,"  he  went 
on  as  he  selected  a  Panatella. 

"Exactly;  the  great  American  impresario  and  financier. 
The  Panther's  keeper,  aha!  if  I  may  use  the  expression  - 
Our     dear     creature's     showman     .     .     .     shortly  - 
Scott  paused  and  shot  a  malevolent  look  at  Lord  Des- 
mond, "shortly  to  be  her  pretty  little  son-in-law." 

The  diplomatist  had  just  struck  a  match  to  light  his 
cheroot;  he  paused  and  held  it  flaming  between  his  fin- 
gers, as  if  fallen  into  a  sudden  muse.  The  flame  reached  his 
fingers;  he  shook  them  and  seemed  to  think  that  he  had 
lit  his  cigar,  for  he  puffed  at  it  vaguely,  once  or  twice. 

Mr.  Scott's  smile  became  accentuated,  as  he  proceeded, 
still  keeping  him  under  his  scrutiny: 

"Tut  —  tut!  I  believe  I  have  let  out  a  little  secret. 
You  will  kindly  keep  it  to  yourselves,  dear,  good  people. 
You  see,  I  am  an  old  friend  of  Fulvia  la  Marmora." 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  really  flustered. 

"To  finance  the  mother  is  all  very  well  —  but  to  marry 
the  daughter!  Scott,  my  dear  friend,  did  I  hear  you  say: 
Marry  the  daughter  ?  The  daughter  —  quite  a  young 
girl!" 

"You  do  misunderstand  —  My  dear  Verie,  your 
countenance  is  as  good  as  a  play  —  Gossip,  for  once, 
has  maligned  the  prima  donna  and  the  Jew.  Robecq 
is,  above  all  things,  a  man  of  business.  It  is  his  rule  in 
life  never  to  mix  up  business  and  pleasure  —  he  is  fond 
of  saying  so,  and  it  is  no  vain  boast  —  She  is,  of  course, 
only  one  of  his  many  investments;  but,  just  now,  she  is 


140  PANTHER'S    CUB 

by  far  the  most  important.  He  makes  her  engagements 
on  his  own  terms,  carts  her  about  the  world,  pays  the 
bills,  and  above  all  looks  after  the  voice  that  is  his  gold 
mine.  But  there  has  never  been  that  —  '  he  snapped 
the  edge  of  his  nail  expressively  —  "between  them." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  Hamilton  relieved,  "very  glad." 

Sir  Joseph  shook  his  head  with  a  grunt   of   disbelief. 

"Dear  me,  yes,  I  went  over  to  Paris  for  her  debut. 
I  was  on  the  Argus,  then.  Robecq  left  me  no  peace 
till  I  consented  to  write  her  up;  and  by  George,  she  was 
worth  it!  After  that  I  never  missed  a  new  performance 
of  hers  anywhere  within  reach.  Dear  me,  yes,  we're 
quite  old  friends.  She  knows  I've  done  her  many  a  good 
turn.  Why,  I  really  think  Robecq  would  never  have 
got  her  Covent  Garden  engagement,  if  it  weren't  for 
me." 

Sir  Joseph  turned,  woodenly,  as  if  constructed  all  of 
a  piece,  to  survey  the  speaker.  He  really  did  not  think 
he  could  smoke  the  cigar  of  a  man  who  talked  so  lightly 
of  so  notorious  a  being;  a  man  who  admitted,  almost 
boastfully,  that  he  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
her  contaminating  presence  into  Britain. 

Unconsciously  the  sinner  continued  his  self-satisfied 
discourse. 

"So  the  dear  lady  does  me  the  honour  to  consult  me, 
in  confidence,  now  and  again.  Not  that  she  ever  follows 
my  advice.  But  in  this  instance,  she  has  my  approval. 
Capital  thing  for  all  parties,  except,  perhaps,  for  old 
Robecq.  I'm  not  so  sure  about  poor  Robecq  —  Odd, 
now,  with  all  his  wives,  that  he  should  want  Panther's 
Cub!" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  141 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Hamilton. 

Sir  Joseph  turned  his  bovine  air  of  reproving  aston- 
ishment upon  him.  Since  there  was  a  chance  of  getting 
the  girl  out  of  the  way,  what  ailed  Hamilton,  the  accred- 
ited friend  of  the  family,  that  he  should  looked  so  shocked  ? 

Hamilton  was  really  flustered. 

"Surely,  Scott,  my  dear  fellow,  I  misunderstand  you. 
You  cannot  approve  of  such  a  marriage,  if  this  Mr. 
—  Mr.  Robecq  is  —  is  —  has " 

"Reassure  yourself,  my  dear  Verie.  Robecq  is  neither 
Bluebeard  nor  Mormon.  Merely  a  law-abiding  American 
citizen.  He  is  perfectly  free  to  make  a  fresh  choice." 

But  the  little  gray  gentleman  was  still  disturbed  in  his 
mind. 

"Is  not  Miss  la  Marmora  still  a  very  young 
lady?" 

"Fresh  from  school  last  month.  Her  name,  by  the 
way,  is  not  La  Marmora,  but  Lovinska.  She's  about 
as  much  right  to  the  one  as  to  the  other.  Don't  ask  me 
why,  before  Sir  Joseph."  The  last-named  gentleman 
still  stood,  rigidly  holding  the  reprobate  cigar  at  arm's 
length.  He  was  listening  intently.  Scott  now  regarded 
him  with  a  quizzical  air. 

"Have  a  light,  won't  you  —  And  you,  Lord  Desmond, 
unless  you  prefer  cold  tobacco  ?  " 

Desmond  stretched  out  his  hand  in  silence  for  the 
lighted  match,  which  his  brother-in-law  had  sternly 
waved  aside. 

But  Hamilton  was  manifestly  uneasy. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  very  unsuitable  match  for  an 
innocent  young  girl,"  he  ejaculated"  querulously. 


142  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The   critic's   eyebrows   described    a   humorous   curve. 

"  Who  spoke  of  innocence,  Verie  ?  " 

Sir  Joseph  glared  the  same  question.  Innocent 
indeed!  the  daughter  of  such  a  mother!  and  now  Mr. 
Scott  again  phrased  the  baronet's  own  thought  in  what 
he  could  not  but  consider  a  remarkable  manner: 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  expect  of  the  Cub,  but  that  it 
should  gambol  after  the  Panther  ?  Do  sit  down,  my  good, 
excellent  Verie,  you  make  one  feel  so  hot.  It  is  high  time 
that  Miss  Fifi  should  be  married  —  high  time." 

The  cotton  spinner  tried  to  exchange  a  glance  of  intel- 
ligence with  his  accomplice.  "  Draw  him  out !"  it  urged. 

But  the  friend  of  the  family  seemed  to  be  taking  an 
unaccountable  view  of  the  situation.  He  turned  (with 
what  Sir  Joseph  afterward  described  to  his  wife  as  quite 
a  scowl)  from  the  meaning  look  and  flung  himself  on  a 
seat  at  some  distance,  his  shoulder  turned  to  the  com- 
pany. The  tapping  of  a  very  neat  black  boot  within  a 
superlatively  white  spat  further  protested  against  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation. 

Sir  Joseph  swelled.  It  was  quite  evident  that  the 
matter  must  be  entirely  conducted  by  himself.  If  flip- 
pant, this  Scott  was  nevertheless  a  gentlemanly,  pleasant 
fellow  enough.  Yes,  he  would  smoke  that  cigar.  He 
would  be  tactful  and  do  the  drawing  out  himself. 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  imply,  sir — "  his  manner 
was  once  more  parliamentary  —  "  that  the  young  person 
in  question  shows  a  disposition  to,  ah  —  to  follow  in  her 
mother's  footsteps  ?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  she  ?  "  cried  the  airy  Scott.  "  Admir- 
able woman,  her  mother,  delightful  woman,  successful 


PANTHER'S    CUB  143 

woman !  Who  could  blame  Miss  Fifi  for  wanting  to  follow 
in  her  mother's  footsteps  ?  " 

"Pshaw,"  said  Hamilton.  He  uncrossed  and 
recrossed  his  legs;  scraped  his  chair  indignantly  on 
the  marble. 

Scott  laughed.  Nothing  so  stimulated  his  peculiar 
form  of  humour  as  opposition. 

"  Not  that  she  cannot  toddle  along  on  her  own  account 
already,"  he  concluded. 

Sir  Joseph,  though  following  with  difficulty  the  nimble 
twists  of  the  critic's  fancy,  had  wit  enough  to  seize  the 
trend,  if  not  the  full  bearing  of  this  observation. 

"  Do  I  gather  that  there  has  been  already,  ahem,  some 
scandal " 

He  rolled  his  eyes  toward  his  brother-in-law,  as  he 
spoke.  Lord  Desmond  was  lying  back  in  his  easy-chair; 
he  might  have  been  asleep  or  dead,  for  all  the  expression 
discernible  on  his  pallid  countenance. 

"Scandal?  Oh,  my  dear  sir!"  said  Scott  smiling. 
His  glance  likewise  sought  the  impassive  face.  "  Scandal 
is  a  big  word,  a  big  word  for  any  little  stir  that  Miss 
Fifi  may  have  made.  Come,  come,  don't  ask  me  to  give 
her  away." 

Hamilton  rose  stiffly  from  his  chair;  wheeled  and 
surveyed  the  group,  his  neat  countenance,  his  mild  glance, 
charged  with  unusual  severity;  then  he  walked  away 
toward  the  shaded  terrace.  It  was  the  most  scathing 
rebuke  there  was  in  him  to  give;  he  himself  thought  it 
fulminating.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  companions;  out- 
raged by  Philip  Scott;  amazed  that  a  man  of  breeding 
like  Lord  Desmond  should  lie  and  feign  sleep,  while  a 


144  PANTHER'S    CUB 

young  lady  —  the  young  lady  he  was  said  to  admire  — 
was  thus  lightly  spoken  of. 

The  critic,  however,  was  alone  of  the  trio  to  be  aware 
of  this  disapproval,  in  which  moreover  his  idle  malice 
would  merely  have  found  a  zest;  Lord  Desmond's  eye- 
lids were  sealed,  and  Sir  Joseph,  agog  with  excitement, 
was  bent  only  on  extracting  the  hinted-at  revelation  in 
its  completeness. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Scott,"  said  the  baronet,  "that  under 
the  circumstances,  you  owe  it  to  us  — "  he  glanced  round 
and  perceived  his  companion's  final  defection.  "To 
me,"  he  amended  firmly,  "not  to  refrain  from  putting 
me  in  possession  of,  hum  —  er,  the  whole  of  the  facts  to 
which  you  allude.  The  family,  on  whose  behalf  I  am 
here  to-day  —  the  family  of  my  —  I  fear  I  must  say  my 
infatuated  brother-in-law." 

Lord  Desmond's  black-lashed  eyelids  slowly  unclosed, 
and  his  blue  eyes  glittered  for  a  barely  appreciable  moment 
on  the  speaker.  It  was  enough  to  reduce  Joseph  to  a 
purple  silence.  Then: 

"  Stop  that,  you  silly  ass ! "  said  his  lordship,  succinctly. 

As  the  baronet  gasped,  Scott's  chuckle  resounded 
in  delight. 

"My  dear  Sir  Joseph,  why  should  you  imagine  that 
I  know  anything  of  the  kind  ?  And  if  I  did,  just  reflect 
a  moment ;  could  I  be  expected  to  —  to  —  'Pon  my 
word  'tisn't  fair  to  ask  me.  Supposing  that  the  dear  child 
had  made  her  little  faux  pas  —  " 

"Her—  what?"  echoed  the  other  with  a  self-forgetful 
emphasis ;" her  what?"  He  craned  his  neck;  his  eyes 
protruded. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  145 

"Faux  pas,"  repeated  the  gossip.  "Delightfully 
generic  term,  which  may  include  every  kind  of  fancy 
step,  my  dear,  good  sir,  except  indeed  the  pas  seid." 

He  was  alone  to  appreciate  his  own  humour.  Sir 
Joseph  stood  staring.  Lord  Desmond  was  yawning. 
Philip  Scott  perceived  that  it  might  after  all  be  advan- 
tageous to  change  the  subject.  He  knew,  none  better, 
how  much  more  disturbing  is  the  innuendo  than  the 
statement.  He  knew  that  he  had  so  far  succeeded  in 
his  benevolent  intention  and  sown  the  seed  of  conjecture 
in  Lord  Desmond's  mind. 

"For  all  your  airs,  my  noble  lord,  you  have  not  been 
able  to  smoke  your  cigar,"  he  said  inwardly. 

The  pompous  baronet,  too,  was  left  in  a  state  of  tanta- 
lization;  and  "dear  Verie,"  who  was  so  ridiculously 
superior,  and  always  coming  the  perfect  gentleman  over 
one,  was  positively  peevish.  The  dull  half-hour  of  wait- 
ing had  not  been  wasted. 

He  rose,  yawned  in  his  turn,  and  surveyed  the  long 
ash  of  his  cigar  critically. 

"  Any  sign  of  our  fair  hostess  without,  Verie  ?  " 

Hamilton  came  down  from  the  terrace,  flung  an 
unappeased  glance  upon  his  interpolator,  passed  him 
deliberately  and  addressed  Lord  Desmond;  his  con- 
science smiting  him  the  while  lest  his  extraordinary 
display  of  severity  should  have  been  too  acutely  felt. 

"Do  you  feel  inclined  to  come  for  a  stroll  in  the  gar- 
den ?  There  are  quite  a  number  of  people  there  already, 
and  it  seems  to  me  oppressively  hot  here." 

His  words  were  emphasized  by  a  liquid  thud  and 
rhythm  of  oars,  and  a  distant  ring  of  laughter. 


146  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Lord  Desmond  opened  his  eyes. 

"Really  —  I  don't  happen  to  feel  hot."  Upon  this 
he  closed  them  again  and  settled  his  long  limbs  as  for 
more  deliberate  repose. 

Unusually  discomfited,  the  little  gentleman  drew 
back  and  took  his  solitary  way  out  on  the  terrace,  passing 
the  gloomily  ruminating  Joseph  and  the  still  chuckling 
Scott  with  renewed  disfavour. 

"Certainly,"  ran  his  sore  thought,  "Lord  Desmond's 
manners  are  far  from  pleasant  —  far  from  pleasant." 


VII 

THE   PANTHER'S   DEN 

MADAME  LA  MARMORA  had  been  a  fortnight  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  almost  from  the  day  of  landing  seemed  to  have 
stepped  into  that  social  position  for  which  she  had  so 
long  hankered  in  vain. 

True,  in  the  States,  as  much  homage  had  been  paid 
to  her  talent  and  success  by  all  classes  as  any  artist  could 
claim  to  have  received;  but  Americans  are  notably 
large-minded  in  such  matters.  There  were  also  one  or 
two  noted  salons  in  Paris  where  she  was  made  welcome, 
but  only  one  or  two  and  these  cosmopolitan.  While, 
as  an  artist  she  could  not  feel  that  she  had  reached  full 
success  until  the  English  public  had  acknowledged  her, 
as  a  woman  she  had  always  aspired  to  the  social  eminence 
given  to  so  many  of  her  operatic  sisters;  aspired  to  it 
almost  more  ardently. 

Robecq  had  assured  her  that  all  would  be  well.  It 
was  his  business  indeed  to  see  that  all  should  be  well. 
But  even  he  was  surprised  at  the  reception  which  spon- 
taneously greeted  the  new  star.  How  much  was  due  to 
his  own  clever  advertising  (he  was  determined  that  her 
long-delayed  London  debut  should  be  heralded  with  the 
utmost  eclat)  this  astute  gentleman  carefully  kept  to  him- 
self. 

But  the  London  society  craze  for  personality,  and 

147 


148  PANTHER'S    CUB 

novelty  at  any  price,  was  no  doubt  a  material  factor. 
The  Salome  arrived  upon  the  scene  at  a  moment  when 
Society  was  at  a  loss  for  a  fresh  idol.  Bare-footed  dances 
had  been  multiplied  ad  nauseam;  the  murderous  gym- 
nastics of  Apaches  were  beginning  to  pall;  Sicilian 
epileptic  convulsions  were  already  forgotten.  Here  was 
one  reputed  of  extraordinary  beauty,  of  peerless  voice, 
of  fantastic  notoriety.  For  her  savage  grace  no  less  than 
for  her  wild  adventures,  it  seemed  that  she  had  been 
nicknamed  the  Panther.  Every  one  could  see  for  him- 
self that  rumour  had  not  lied  with  regard  to  her  beauty; 
for  her  portraits,  in  every  conceivable  attitude  and  cos- 
tume, flooded  the  papers.  Needless  to  say,  the  hostess 
who  could  first  secure  such  a  presence  at  her  house  was 
certain  of  the  success  of  the  season.  Coroneted  notes 
poured  in  upon  Robecq  at  Claridge's.  The  slightest 
shadow  of  acquaintance  with  the  impresario  was  held 
sufficient  pretext. 

"Dear  Baron,  I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  me;  we 
met  once  last  year,  at  Lady  Caradoc's  —  I'm  just  dying 
to  meet  Madame  la  Marmora " 

"Can  we  induce  you  to  bring  your  merveille?" 

"Fix  your  own  night,  dear  Baron  —  the  Duke  and  I  — " 
etc. 

The  manager  had  a  private  smile,  and  an  invariable 
reply  for  these  blandishments.  It  was  no  part  of  his 
programme  that  his  star  should  make  herself  cheap  by 
shining,  except  from  her  proper  setting,  even  if  the  risk 
of  crowds  and  hot  rooms  had  not  of  necessity  to  be 
shunned.  But  as  he  could  not  altogether  keep  the  more 
enterprising  novelty-hunters  from  applying  direct  to  her; 


PANTHER'S    CUB  149 

and  as  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  to  keep  the  Panther 
in  good  humour;  as  further  he  was  supremely  anxious 
to  provide  a  counter  attraction  to  Lord  Desmond,  he 
permitted  the  tenancy  of  the  marble  "cottage,"  and  even 
encouraged  the  bi-weekly  strawberry  parties.  Let  her 
have  a  fling  for  a  little  while;  it  could  only  be  for  a  little 
while.  The  Herr  Repetitor  was  keeping  his  word  satis- 
factorily; work  was  to  begin  in  earnest  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  The  production  of  Salome  was  announced  for 
the  week  following  Ascot. 

Meanwhile,  faithful  to  his  maxim  of  not  mixing  busi- 
ness with  pleasure,  he  was  making  no  attempt  to  advance 
his  courtship  qua  suitor.  Besides  the  fact  that  he  could 
not  give  his  mind  to  it  with  any  comfort,  it  was  his  pur- 
pose to  let  the  girl  familiarize  herself  with  him  first  as 
a  kind  of  benevolent  genie.  He  treated  her  as  one  would 
a  child  one  is  bent  on  spoiling.  He  was  for  ever  bringing 
her  little  gifts ;  constantly  procuring  little  treats.  Between 
her  and  her  mother's  stormy  caprices  he  would  interpose 
his  authoritative  good  nature.  But  it  was  on  the  day 
when  he  presented  her  with  a  Persian  kitten  that  he 
altogether  won  from  her  some  real  liking. 

Meanwhile  he  was  by  no  means  blind  to  the  fact  that 
it  was  for  her  and  her  alone  that  Lord  Desmond  Brooke 
paid  his  frequent  visits  to  Branksome.  At  first  it  caused 
him  some  annoyance,  though  hardly  amounting  to  per- 
turbation. He  could  easily  have  put  a  stop  to  it,  no  doubt, 
by  one  hint  dropped  in  the  mother's  ear.  But  that  was 
the  last  thing  the  manager  of  an  irascible  prima  donna 
could  afford  to  do.  We  must  tide  over  Salome  —  at 
all  costs,  was  his  perpetual  preoccupation.  After  that 


150  PANTHER'S    CUB 

we  shall  have  summer  holidays  —  let  the  Panther  scream 
then.  She  would  have  served  her  turn  —  Let  her  scream. 

It  was  his  cue,  of  course,  to  foil  Lord  Desmond's 
opportunities  with  Fifi,  if  not  for  the  sake  of  his  future 
"pleasure,"  at  least  for  that  of  his  present  "business." 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  allay  any  possible  suspicion 
in  La  Marmora's  breast  by  straining  the  truth  in  his 
reference  to  Lord  Desmond;  speaking  of  him  casually 
as  "your  latest  adorer,  dear  friend";  laughing  gently 
at  British  manners  of  expressing  feelings  as  exemplified 
by  his  lordship;  never  failing  to  comment  with  knowing 
smile  on  the  frequency  of  his  appearance  among 
them. 

Privately  he  wondered  at  the  singer's  obtuseness.  He 
little  knew  that  he  had  had  a  potent  ally  in  this  work  of 
deception.  And  this  was  Elisa. 

When  the  sheaf  of  lily  of  the  valley  had  arrived  at 
the  hotel,  in  Vienna,  Lord  Desmond's  card  attached  very 
distinctly  had  borne  the  dedication:  "For  Madem- 
oiselle." Mother  and  daughter  had  both  been  out; 
it  was  the  maid  who  had  received  the  flowers  from  the 
messenger.  A  spasm  of  rage  had  seized  the  old  woman 
at  the  thought  of  her  mistress's  eclipse,  of  her  own  jealous 
forebodings  thus  early  realized. 

"Ah  bien,  non!"  she  had  cried  through  her  teeth. 
"Little  viper,  it  shall  not  be  for  thee!"  With  her  nimble 
French  fingers  she  had  detached  the  card,  erased  the 
pencil  inscription  and  rewritten  it. 

The  singer  had  found  the  great  cool  fragrant  bunch 
in  her  room  upon  returning  from  her  drive;  and  as  she 
read  the  dedication  —  "Pour  Madame  la  Marmora," 


PANTHER'S    CUB  151 

had  known  a  moment  of  exquisite  joy  and  triumph. 
Fifi  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  that  night. 

Thus  the  web  of  illusion  had  begun  to  be  woven.  The 
diva  was  wound  round  with  it;  living  in  it  cocoon-like, 
with  something  that  almost  approached  happiness  in 
her  restless  heart. 

On  this,  the  day  of  her  fourth  garden  party,  she  was 
standing  on  the  lawn,  in  the  shade  of  a  great  cedar  tree, 
receiving  her  guests  with  that  urbane,  grande  dame  manner 
in  which  she  was  becoming  ever  more  proficient. 

She  wore  a  filmy  garment  of  corn-coloured  cre'pe, 
embroidered  with  wonderful  delicacy  and  richness  in 
long  lines  of  wheat-ears.  An  immense  hat  of  the  same 
tint,  garlanded  with  bunches  of  corn  in  every  shade  of 
yellow,  crowned  her  burnished  head.  It  was  the  inspira- 
tion of  an  artist;  an  embodiment  of  summer  ripeness, 
yet  conveying  a  sense  of  diaphanous  coolness.  Tucked 
into  the  riband  of  the  high  Directoire  waist  was  a  bunch 
of  tea  roses. 

"Mais  vous  savez  qu'elle  est  ideate!"  exclaimed  a  little 
French  countess,  who  had  left  her  dear  Lady  Peter- 
borough no  peace  till  she  had  been  brought  within  the 
coveted  circle. 

La  Marmora  overheard,  as  she  was  meant  to  do,  and 
the  radiance  in  her  eyes  was  heightened. 

It  was  a  gay  and  pretty  scene.  The  grounds  at  Brank- 
some  ran  in  two  terraces  down  to  the  river.  All  that  was 
not  smooth  green  turf  in  the  upper  lawn  was  rose  garden. 
At  one  end  of  the  marble  colonnade  that  so  incongru- 
ously replaced  the  original  verandah  against  the  brick 
walls,  a  long  buffet  with  tea  and  every  kind  of  iced  drink 


152  PANTHER'S    CUB 

awaited  the  guests.  But  the  promised  strawberries  were 
set  on  small  tables  in  lost  corners  under  the  trees ;  beneath 
pergolas;  in  unexpected  and  shady  nooks;  each  pro- 
vided with  but  two  chairs  —  little  traps  for  summer  flirta- 
tions. This  device  created  merriment  among  the  com- 
pany, but  seemed  nevertheless  appreciated. 

Sir  Joseph,  piloted  by  the  friend  of  the  house,  stepped 
as  gingerly  from  the  fine  gravel  of  the  path  on  to  the 
sward,  as  if  in  this  garden  of  Eden  he  feared  to  find  the 
serpent  beneath  his  foot. 

"Behold,"  said  Scott,  dithyrambically,  indicating  the 
variegated  group  under  the  cedar  tree  with  a  gesture. 
"Behold     Margherita,     Messalina,     Mimi,     Violetta  — 
Salome!    Ah,  above  all,  Salome!" 

Sir  Joseph  stopped  with  a  jerk : 

"Mimi,  Violetta,  Salome!"  he  ejaculated  in  horror  — 
"Mr.  Scott, this  is  is  a  very  unpleasant  situation.  Ham- 
ilton gave  me  to  understand  —  I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
disguise  from  myself  that  this  is  more  than  doubtful 
company!" 

The  other  was  overcome  with  laughter,  such  laughter 
that  he  was  fain  to  clutch  his  companion's  unresponsive 
coat  sleeve; 

"Oh,  my  dear,  good  sir,"  he  gasped  at  last,  "positively 
you'll  be  the  death  of  me!"     Then,  meeting  the  offended 
glare  of  the  baronet,  he  composed  himself  to  gravity  — 
only  to  break  out  again. 

"My  fault  —  my  fault  entirely!  My  little  pictur- 
esque way.  I  refer  merely  to  our  peerless  hostess.  Yon- 
der she  stands  —  ravishing  creature !  All  in  yellow 


She  was  standing  on  the  lavm  .  .  .  receiving  her  guests 
with  that  urbane,  grande  dame  manner,  in  irhidi  .s7/r 
was  becoming  ever  more  proficient 


PANTHER'S     CUB  153 

to-day.  True  to  her  Panther's  livery!  Fulvia  well 
named !  Never  look  so  alarmed,  my  dear,  good  fellow  — 
why  the  air  is  thick  with  her  purrs !  You  will  be  received 
as  if  you  were  royalty  and  her  most  beloved  friend  rolled 
into  one." 

"Mr.  Scott,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  "I  trust  that  such  bland- 
ishments —  if  the  lady  thinks  by  flattery  she  will  make 
me  condone  —  sir,  it  is  with  the  utmost  repugnance  I 
have  set  foot  in  these  purlieus,  and  —  in  short,  Mr. 
Scott,  I  cannot  share  your  light  way  of  regarding " 

He  tripped  in  a  croquet  hoop  in  his  agitation  as  he 
spoke;  and  the  critic  caught  him  nimbly  by  the  elbow. 

"Steady,  Sir  Joseph. — "  Then  he  had  to  stop  to  enjoy 
another  cachinnation.  "Look  at  —  the  doubtful  com- 
pany. Pray  forgive  me.  I  cannot  help  seeing  the  droll 
side  of  things.  You  dear,  good  people  have  such  vivid 
imaginations!" 

He  glanced  at  Sir  Joseph's  face  and  the  comic  inex- 
actitude of  his  own  words,  "vivid  imagination,"  as  applied 
to  anything  so  wooden,  tickled  him  afresh.  "As  our 
good  Verie  told  you,  Madame  la  Marmora's  parties  are 
conducted  with  a  good  deal  more  decorum  than  you  will 
find,  say,  at  Sturminster  under  the  present  reign.  And 
you'll  meet  people  here  to-day  every  whit  as  virtuous, 
and  a  great  deal  more  amusing,  than  Martia  Marchion- 
ess herself.  Why,  look  yonder,  isn't  that  Lord  and 
Lady  Lossie  coming  toward  us  ?  " 

The  poor  bewildered  Member  of  Parliament  fumbled 
for  his  eyeglasses  and  remained  staring.  In  the  large, 
bland,  whitebearded  gentleman,  strolling  smilingly  across 
his  line  of  vision,  and  in  the  little  withered  lady  in  violet 


154  PANTHER'S    CUB 

silk  who  tripped  beside  him,  looking  with  alert  interest 
about  her,  he  recognized  indeed  that  well-known  pair. 
The  Low  Church  Champions;  the  Temperance  enthusi- 
asts; the  organizers  of  Drawing-room  prayer  meetings, 
of  the  Anti-Betting  League,  the  young  men's  Lord's  Day 
Association;  the  young  woman's  black-bonnet  friend; 
of  the  cocoa-and-lemonade  hostels  and  the  rest  of  it. 
Lord  and  Lady  Lossie!  Lord  and  Lady  Lossie, 
Madame  la  Marmora's  guests!  And  indubitably  well 
pleased  to  be  so!  .  .  . 

"Come,  come,"  said  Scott,  jogging  him  playfully 
with  his  cane.  "Your  hostess  is  looking  at  you." 

The  baronet  tottered  on.  All  his  most  cherished 
convictions  violently  upheaved.  What  was  the  world, 
and,  more  important  still,  what  was  British  aristocracy 
coming  to  ? 

As  one  in  a  nightmare,  he  found  himself  under  the 
cedar  tree  in  actual  proximity  to  the  abandoned  creature. 
He  had  resolved,  as  he  had  even  informed  his  wife  ere 
departing,  that  nothing  would  induce  him  to  shake  hands 
with  her.  And  here  he  stood  gazing  helplessly  at  his 
own  stout,  suede-covered  fist  encircled  in  her  slender 
bare  hand. 

Her  clasp  lingered,  as  she  turned  with  honeyed  ques- 
tioning from  the  stranger  to  his  introducer: 

"  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  ?  But,  of  course,  Sir  Joseph 
Warren-Smith.  .  .  .  No,  we  have  not  met  before, 
have  we,  Sir  Joseph?  But,  of  course,  I  know  the 
name." 

"The  Member  of  Parliament,"  said  Scott  with  a  grin. 

"  The  Member  of  Parliament ! "     The  virtuous  fingers 


PANTHER'S    CUB  155 

received  yet  another  pressure.  "The  Member  of  Par- 
liament, of  course." 

"And  brother-in-law  of  our  friend,  Lord  Desmond." 

"Indeed!"  murmured  the  lady  in  the  same  dulcet 
tone.  But  the  ring-laden  hand  twitched,  and  to  the 
baronet's  infinite  relief,  slowly  abandoned  his.  Her 
long  eyelids  narrowed,  and  a  glance  of  scrutiny  shot  out 
upon  him,  keen  as  a  suddenly  bared  knife.  "Of 
course — "  she  repeated,  but  it  was  vaguely;  her  voice 
trailed  off.  "We  half  expected  your  brother-in-lavr 
to-day." 

Here  she  flung  both  hands  toward  a  stout,  radiant, 
swart  Italian,  who  was  hurrying,  almost  bounding,  up 
to  her.  "  Ah,  mon  cher  —  vous  voila  en  fin!  And  I, 
who  was  fearing  you  had  failed  me ! " 

"It's  Guarcini,"  whispered  Scott  to  Sir  Joseph. 

"  Guarcini  ?  "  repeated  the  baronet,  blankly. 

"Yes,  the  tenor,  the  great  tenor,  don't  you  know? 
You're  in  luck !  Just  look  how  Lady  Lossie  is  skimming 
back  to  us!  I'll  wager  she's  going  to  cadge  for  a  song 
for  her  Temperance  Concert  next  week ! " 

But  Sir  Joseph  had  no  attention  to  spare  from  the  new 
arrival.  His  astounded  eyes  received  the  impression 
of  Guarcini's  emerald  tie,  his  brown  frock  coat  with  the 
carnation  in  the  button  hole,  the  gray  tyrolese  hat  which 
he  was  flourishing  in  a  series  of  ecstatic  bows. 

Then  came  the  meeting  between  hostess  and  guest; 
and  the  poor  M.  P's  cup  of  horror  and  amazement  was 
full. 

Guarcini  had  seized  both  La  Marmora's  extended 
hands  and  was  planting  kisses  upon  them  with  a  rapidity 


156  PANTHER'S    CUB 

and  vehemence,  the  like  of  which  the  M.  P.  had  never 
conceived  possible.  Ejaculations  in  a  tongue  unknown 
to  his  shocked  ears,  escaped  the  while  from  under  the 
upturned  black  moustaches :  "  In  -fine!  che  gioja!  Quel 
memento  aspettato!  Carissima!  Bellissima  arnica 
.  .  .  Divina  —  divina! " 

Sir  Joseph  was  convinced  that  the  foreign  tongue  was 
but  a  cloak  for  the  utmost  impropriety.  Scott  roused 
him  from  his  attitude  of  spell-bound  distress  by  eagerly 
advancing  in  his  turn  to  attract  the  tenor's  attention. 
This  latter,  his  tyrolese  hat  at  the  back  of  a  profusion 
of  sable  curls,  was  now  mopping  a  brow  heated  by  the 
effervescence  of  his  emotion.  But  from  behind  the  folds 
of  a  huge  sky-blue  handkerchief  the  irrepressible  southern 
speech  still  flowed  on. 

"  Caro  Guarcini  — "  the  critic  called  out,  in  staccato 
Italian.  It  was  the  signal  for  the  blue  flag  to  be  stuffed 
away  and  for  a  new  conjunction  of  clasped  hands. 

"Ma  no!  non  e  possibile!    Scotti?  e  Scotti,  in  verita!" 

"Scott  en  chair  et  en  os!"  said  La  Marmora.  Then, 
with  a  murmurous  laugh :  "  Plus  chair  que  d'os  —  eh, 
mon  ami?  " 

"Deliciou!"  said  the  tenor  with  a  deep-chested  shout 
of  appreciation.  "Ma!"  he  flung  a  moist  look  of 
affection  on  the  critic,  "toujours  cher,  notre  bon  Scotti." 
Thereupon  he  made  a  lurch,  enfolded  the  gentleman  in 
question  in  his  arms,  and  saluted  him  on  both  cheeks. 

Revolted  out  of  his  spell-bound  contemplation,  Sir 
Joseph  turned  and  stalked  away.  But  not  before  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lady  Lossie,  diving  in,  all  smiles, 
for  her  opportunity.  Shattered  was  his  trust  in  Scott, 


PANTHER'S    CUB  157 

in  Low  Church  peeresses,   in  the  morals   of  his   own 
country. 

When  Desmond  Brooke  found  himself  alone  his  air 
of  languor  dropped  from  him  like  a  garment.  Rising 
to  his  feet  he  began  to  pace  the  echoing  length  of  the 
room,  pausing  each  time  in  front  of  the  curtains  that  con- 
cealed the  outer  door  before  retracing  his  steps  toward 
the  colonnade  as  if  drawn  by  some  external  force.  What 
was  he  doing  here,  after  all  ?  If  Fifi  Lovinska  were  truly 
her  mother's  daughter,  what  but  disaster  was  likely  to 
follow  upon  a  further  intercourse  ?  And  if  she  were  the 
child  her  innocent  eyes  proclaimed  her,  oh,  then  the 
question  became  ten  thousand  times  intensified;  what 
was  he  doing  here,  indeed  ? 

He  stopped  by  the  couch  and  struck  his  forehead 
with  his  open  palm.  Infatuation  —  that  was  what 
that  ass  Joseph  had  charged  him  with.  Infatuation  — 
And  the  charge  was  true.  Though  Joseph  said  it,  it 
was  apt,  and  struck  home. 

Then  as  he  stood,  the  dark  colour  of  anger  rose  to  his 
bleached  face.  So,  his  mother  had  dispatched  her 
vulgar  son-in-law  and  her  gentlemanly  little  toady  to 
spy  on  him !  He  recognized  her  touch  there  —  the  touch 
of  the  mean  cold  hand  that  had  not  known  how  to  clasp 
him  warmly,  even  as  a  child. 

Unlike  Sturminster,  Desmond  did  not  get  on  with 
his  mother.  She  had  never  liked  him  —  he  had  never 
liked  her.  Once  before  she  had  interfered  with  his  life, 
to  his  bitter  misfortune. 

He  had  been  a  very  young  man  then,  believing  in  good- 


158  PANTHER'S    CUB 

ness,  and  therefore  had  been  an  easy  victim.  He  was 
nearly  middle-aged  now,  and  believed  in  nothing:  he 
was  not  likely  to  submit  to  the  same  interference  —  and 
through  such  an  agent!  He  laughed  out  loud  shortly. 
"Joseph  —  Joseph  to  hector  me!  Damn  Joseph!  And 
damn  too  that  sleek  animal  with  the  poisonous  tongue, 
what's  his  name  —  that  Scott  —  that  kind  of  pig  on  his 
hind  legs!" 

There  came  a  burst  of  gay  cymbalon  music  from  some 
depth  of  the  garden,  and  a  stream  of  chattering  figures 
began  to  cross  the  long  windows,  open  on  the  terrace. 
There  was  laughter  and  a  medley  of  voices,  dominated 
all  at  once  by  the  unctuous  German-American  drawl  of 
Robecq. 

The  impresario  was  apparently  attending  to  the  wants 
of  some  important  dowager. 

"  Now,  what  will  you  have,  Lady  Constance  ?  a  glass 
of  orangeade  ?  champagne  cup  ?  or  tea  —  champagne 
cup." 

His  white  top-hat  crossed  and  recrossed  the  furthest 
window.  Desmond  had  a  swift  vision  of  a  stout  figure 
in  a  too  well-fitting  gray  frock  coat.  Then  the  drawling 
voice  began  again : 

"Glorious   day!  yes,   I've   but   this   instant   arrived." 

"La  Marmora's  pretty  little  son-in-law."  A  vision 
of  Scott's  sniggering  face  rose  before  him.  Nausea  over- 
came the  listener.  Faugh,  what  creatures  one  met  here! 
To  have  to  hobnob  with  a  Scott  —  and  a  Robecq !  He 
looked  down  at  the  couch  with  its  bear  skins.  After  all, 
what  was  he  doing  here  ? 

He  turned   decidedly  toward   the  hidden  door.     To 


PANTHER'S     CUB  159 

reach  it  he  had  to  pass  one  of  the  odd  little  out-jutting 
rounded  corners  which  had  once  been  separate  rooms. 
This  was  lit  by  a  narrow,  deeply  recessed  window,  so 
narrow  indeed  that  it  was  dignified  by  neither  blind  nor 
curtain;  only  long  tangles  of  green  creepers  and  rambler 
roses  shadowed  it  from  outside.  Framed  by  this  blossom 
and  leaf  and  looking  in  upon  him  through  the  open 
casement  was  the  face  of  Fifi  Lovinska. 

As  their  eyes  met  she  smiled. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you'd  never  look  round!  Won't  you 
come  into  the  garden  ?  " 

He  took  two  paces  toward  her.  Quick  and  impulsive 
they  were  for  one  generally  so  weary.  She  lowered  her 
voice,  nearly  to  a  whisper:  she  could  not  have  known 
how  her  golden-hazel  eyes  pleaded  and  caressed:  could 
not  have  known  all  that  they  admitted,  all  that  they 
offered. 

"  I  am  so  longing  for  a  row  on  the  river." 

"I'll  join  you  in  a  second,"  cried  Desmond  rather 
hoarsely. 

The  current  had  hold  of  him  again  and  he  was  drift- 
ing. For  ten  years  he  had  been  drifting,  deliberately; 
never  so  pleasantly  as  now  that,  it  seemed  to  him,  he 
could  not  help  it. 

Before  he  gained  the  little  plot  of  grass  with  the  sun- 
dial, where  he  knew  the  girl  was  awaiting  him,  he  paused 
a  second  to  apostrophize  the  blue  vault  above  him. 
And  why  should  he  not  drift  ?  he  asked  of  it,  with  the 
passion  that  had  lain  dormant  within  him  these  long, 
long  years.  Was  there  any  power  up  there  to  prevent 
it? 


160  PANTHER'S    CUB 

He  had  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  swing  in  his  tread, 
as  he  came  round  the  yew  hedge.  Neither  Heaven  nor 
—  nor  Joseph  —  should  keep  him  away  from  his  pleasure 
to-day  —  from  the  pleasure  of  floating  out  upon  the  cool 
green  water  with  this  peerless  creature  beside  him  — 
This  nymph  with  the  sun-kiss  on  her  cheek  and  the  golden 
glories  in  her  hair;  with  the  eyes  that  were  so  mysterious 
in  their  child-wonder  and  that  were  beginning  to  hold 
such  revelation  for  him.  The  nymph  with  the  frank 
lips,  the  smile  of  which  was  youth  itself  in  its  happy 
carelessness,  the  laugh  of  which  was  the  spring  of  a 
fountain. 

Had  any  man  indeed  kissed  those  lips  ?  he  asked  him- 
self, as  the  shapely  sunburned  hand  was  laid  in  his.  He 
felt  a  jealous  clutch  at  the  heart.  The  concomitant 
thought  sent  a  sudden  eddy  of  blood  to  his  brain.  To 
kiss  those  smiling  lips ! 

Yet,  as  their  hands  fell  apart,  he  knew  that,  lonely 
as  they  stood,  and  small  as  the  offence  would  probably 
seem  in  her  eyes,  he  could  not  kiss  her.  It  was  almost 
as  if  he  dared  not. 

What  Desmond  Brooke  had  defied  Heaven  and  Sir 
Joseph  to  do,  the  Baron  de  Robecq  was  fated  to  accom- 
plish. Even  as  finger  on  lip,  laughing  over  her  shoulder, 
like  the  woodland  being  she  seemed,  Fifi  prepared  to 
lead  the  way,  through  a  deserted  shrubby  path  to  the 
lonely  backwater  of  her  choice,  the  Baron,  urbane,  smil- 
ing, sure  of  his  welcome,  but  with  a  panting  breath  that 
revealed  unwonted  hurry,  crunched  into  their  solitude 
a  deux. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  161 

"  Caught,  Miss  Feefi ! "  he  observed  jocularly  —  "  Oh, 
how  do  you  do,  Lord  Desmond  ?  " 

Desmond  could  do  no  less  than  submit  to  the  warm 
handshake  which  it  was  the  impresario's  genial  way  to 
prolong  beyond  the  usual  limit. 

"Miss  Feefi,  your  mama  wants  you,  badly!  She's 
just  overwhelmed.  We  never  had  so  many."  He 
turned,  in  an  explanatory  manner  from  one  to  the  other, 
with  apparent  unconsciousness  of  their  blank  looks 
and  undisguised  resentment.  "Madame  la  Marmora 
has  heard  of  your  arrival,  Lord  Desmond,  and  I  gladly 
offered  to  convey  a  message  to  you.  Your  hostess  bids 
me  say  she  has  kept  a  place  for  you  at  her  own  straw- 
berry table.  It  is  in  the  pergola,  at  the  right  of  the  cedar 
tree.  I  think  you  know  the  way." 

("See  what  a  good  fellow  I  am,"  his  air  proclaimed. 
"  I  like  pleasing  everybody.") 

The  recipient  of  this  pleasing  news  made  a  gesture  of 
impatience.  The  words:  "I've  promised  Mademoi- 
selle Lovinska  te  take  her  on  the  river,"  were  rising  to 
his  lips;  but  for  some  reason,  not  quite  clear  to  himself, 
he  hesitated,  and  the  girl  quickly  forestalled  him.  Though 
angry  tears  had  sprung  to  her  eyes,  there  was  a  look 
of  fear  in  them  too. 

"  You  must  go  to  Mama  —  of  course  you  must  go 
to  Mama,"  she  said  in  a  rapid  whisper. 

Behind  that  mask  of  impassivity,  which  it  was  his 
way  to  don  before  nearly  every  one,  Desmond's  thoughts 
were  once  again  acutely  active.  Again  the  odious  phrase: 
"  He  is  to  be  her  pretty  son-in-law,"  recurred  to  his  mind 
.  .  .  The  woodland  creature  and  that  pursy  Jew 


162  PANTHER'S    CUB 

with  his  divorces  and  his  oily  amiability!  .  .  .  The 
satyr  and  the  nymph  —  and  her  own  mother's  planning ! 
Monstrous!  Incredible!  Yet  there  was  fear  in  the 
girl's  eyes. 

With  a  heat  of  feeling  amazing  to  himself,  he  made 
a  sudden  decision.  Whoever  captured  the  nymph  it 
should  not  be  Robecq.  To  go  out  of  her  life,  now  (as 
a  little  while  ago  wisdom  had  bade  him),  would  be 
impossible.  And  if  to  remain  on  the  scene  he  must  so 
far  meet  with  the  prirna  donna's  unendurable  gracious- 
ness  as  to  sit  with  her  at  the  strawberry  table  —  when 
with  all  his  heart  he  would  be  under  the  willows  on  the 
river  —  why  then  he  must  even  submit  to  the  weariness. 
If  only  for  the  fear  in  those  eyes;  if  only  for  the  sheer 
humanity  of  being  able  later  on  to  thwart  the  German- 
American-Jewish  satyr. 

This  latter,  unconscious  of  the  violence  of  antipathy 
he  was  rousing  in  the  diplomatist's  breast,  but  by  no 
means  unconscious  of  his  own  ungracious  r61e  of  spoil- 
sport, stood  waiting,  inflexible  under  his  urbanity,  till 
his  desires  were  complied  with.  It  was  by  this  unalter- 
able good  temper  that  the  impresario  had  successfully 
imposed  all  his  life  his  equally  unalterable  will. 

With  an  imperceptible  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  one 
look  at  Fifi's  now  downcast  face,  revelatory  of  an  ardour 
of  which  he  himself  was  as  yet  not  fully  aware,  Lord 
Desmond  mutely  gave  in. 

"Well,  we  may  as  well  all  go,"  he  said,  with  an  air 
of  indolent  resignation.  "Mademoiselle  Lovinska,  shall 
we  go,  since  your  mother  wants  you,  too  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  the  Baron.     "Mi**1 


PANTHER'S     CUB  163 

Feefi's  post  is  in  the  colonnade,  and  the  Duchess  particu- 
larly wants  to  see  the  Persian  kitten.  And  I  have  a  little 
message,  besides,  for  Miss  Feefi's  ear  alone.  You  can't 
mistake  the  pergola,  Lord  Desmond." 

Side  by  side,  nymph  and  satyr,  watched  the  tall  figure 
retreat  from  them  upon  its  laggard  way.  Then,  with 
a  stamp  of  her  foot,  and  a  crimsoning  cheek,  the  girl 
turned  fiercely  to  her  companion.  It  was  not  "old 
Robecq "  she  was  afraid  of. 

"How  you  do  plague  me,  Baron!  Always  after 
me !  You're  as  bad  as  Fritz !  What's  your  precious 
message  ?  " 

The  man  ran  an  indulgent  eye  from  the  radiant  head 
down  the  lovely  lines  of  the  young  strong  figure  in  its 
already  crumpled  and  green-stained  muslin.  His  glance 
rested  thoughtfully  on  her  white  doeskin  shoes,  wet  with 
the  river  slime.  From  thence  it  wandered  back  to  the 
hands  which  were  clenched  angrily  in  front  of  her  —  those 
sunburned,  shapely  hands,  the  touch  of  which  had  stirred 
Lord  Desmond  with  such  an  unwonted  and  complicated 
emotion  —  stained,  too,  with  the  wholesome  earth  and 
the  green  of  riverside  tree-bolls. 

"Your  Mama  said  you'd  probably  have  to  change 
your  dress,  my  dear;  and  if  you  don't  mind  my  adding, 
I  think  you'd  better  change  your  shoes  and  wash  your 
hands." 

She  stamped  her  foot  again. 

"Why,  you're  worse  than  Fritz,"  she  cried.  "You're 
a  regular  old  nurse."  But  she  seemed  to  find  no  choice 
but  compliance.  She  flung  herself  away  from  him, 
and  ran  round  the  yew  hedge,  catching  the  unhappy 


164  PANTHER'S     CUB 

muslin  against  the  rustic  archway,  and  wrenching  it 
away  with  an  angry  hand  that  left  a  fluttering  streamer 
behind. 

He  watched  her  with  an  expression  that  no  one  had 
as  yet  surprised  in  his  small  shrewd  eyes. 

"She's  adorable!"  he  said  aloud,  in  his  emphatic 
nasal  drawl. 


VIII 
THE  DOWAGER  ON  THE  WARPATH 

LADY  ALICE  WARREN-SMITH  sat  in  the  gorgeous  draw- 
ing room  of  her  gorgeous  house  in  Prince's  Gate.  Upon 
this  mansion,  as  Sir  Joseph  was  fond  of  informing  his 
friends,  no  expense  had  been  spared.  "Put  in  the  hands 
of  a  first-class  firm,  sir,  and  'go  ahead,'  I  said  to  them, 
'go  ahead.  Give  me  value  for  money  —  that's  all  I 
ask.'" 

The  first-class  firm  of  Daring  and  Gibbons  had  "gone 
ahead,"  and  in  three-pile  carpet  and  velvet  brocade, 
inlay  and  gesso  work,  alabaster  and  ormolu,  Viennese 
bronze  and  Florentine  carving,  Sir  Joseph  had  his  money 
value.  There  was  not  an  inch  of  wall-space  left  untor- 
mented;  not  one  refreshing  plain  line  or  surface.  The 
very  bedrooms  repudiated  the  simplicity  of  chintz  or 
china  and  contained  marvels  in  the  way  of  porphyry 
and  satin.  There  was  heraldry  even  on  the  blankets. 
But  the  drawing  room  was,  naturally,  the  first-class 
firm's  supreme  effort. 

Philip  Scott  could  hardly  repress  a  shudder  as  he 
entered  its  splendour  for  the  first  time.  Like  Mr.  Vere 
Hamilton  he  had  been  summoned  by  an  urgent  letter, 
and  very  well  knew  what  family  dilemma  had  gained 
him  the  distinction. 

The  critic,  the  artist,  the  literary  man,  had  been  hitherto 

165 


166  PANTHER'S    CUB 

classed  among  the  "queer  people"  that  Martia  Mar- 
chioness and  her  daughter  would  never  invite  into  their 
houses,  no  matter  what  modern  Society  might  do.  Martia 
Marchioness  had  even  a  text  in  this  connection:  it  was 
one  referring  to  pitch.  It  was  a  text  which  her  sons 
had  both  of  them  been  wont  to  put  to  the  test  with  the 
utmost  frequency.  And  now  Desmond  was  actually 
bringing  the  truth  of  it  home  to  the  sacred  maternal 
and  sisterly  circles.  Joseph  himself  had  dipped  into 
the  pitch-pot. 

He  had  returned  from  Branksome  in  a  curiously  excited 
state,  with  many  strange  tales;  his  wife  had  never  seen 
him  thus.  Horrified  as  he  had  been,  such  phrases  as 
"Alluring,  my  dear  .  .  .  undoubtedly  alluring!" 
had  escaped  him.  Once  he  had  spoken  of  that  afternoon 
as  "an  Arabian  Night's  dream."  This  unwonted  poetry 
of  expression  had  kept  Lady  Alice  awake  till  dawn. 
Filled  with  wrath  against  the  want  of  consideration  — 
she  would  not  say  of  principle  —  that  had  exposed  the 
virtuous  man  to  such  perils,  she  determined  that  never, 
never  again  should  Joseph  be  mixed  up  in  this  scandal- 
ous business. 

But  she  had  reckoned  without  the  Dowager.  Martia 
Marchioness  had  elicited  a  full  and  particular  account 
of  her  son-in-law's  expedition;  and  in  her  shrewd  mind 
had  ear-marked  several  items  of  information  as  contain- 
ing potentiality. 

When,  after  the  interval  of  another  week,  she  found 
that  there  was  no  falling  off  in  Desmond's  assiduities, 
while  the  gossip  occasioned  by  them  was  progressing  in 
geometrical  ratio,  she  resolved  upon  action.  Like  the 


PANTHER'S    CUB  167 

old-fashioned  generals,  she  was  very  slow  to  act,  as  a 
rule. 

"Alice,"  she  had  ordered,  "you  must  invite  that  person 
Scott  to  tea,  and  find  out  what  he  knows  about  that 
girl's  past.  Since  it  seems,  after  all,  that  your  brother 
is  even  more  abandoned  than  I  thought  and  that  the 
mother  is  a  mere  blind." 

Lady  Alice  gasped.  Her  protuberant  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves on  the  relentless  old  face,  with  a  mixture  of  resent- 
ment and  fear. 

"  Mama,  I  don't  know  him." 

"  Joseph  does.     Let  Joseph  write." 

"  Mama,  I've  never  had  that  kind  of  people." 

"  What  nonsense,  Alice!  You  needn't  know  him  after- 
ward." 

"Mama  —  couldn't  you     ....      ?" 

Lady  Sturminster  slowly  turned  her  eyes  upon  her 
daughter.  They  were  as  prominent  as  her  own.  But 
whereas  the  peculiar  setting  of  Lady  Alice's  orbs  made 
all  for  weak-mindedness  and  pusillanimity,  that  of  her 
mother's  but  served  to  heighten,  almost  to  terrifying  effect, 
the  impression  of  cold,  unsparing  purpose. 

"  I  ?  "  queried  the  great  lady,  after  a  long  pause. 

No  more  had  been  needed.  Alice  had  abjectly  acceded 
to  every  detail  of  the  order.  Mr.  Scott  was  to  be  asked. 
Lady  Alice  and  Joseph  were  to  find  out.  The  Dowager 
arranged  to  look  in  accidentally  during '  the  interview. 
She  would  perhaps  bring  Vere  Hamilton ;  an  independent 
witness  might  be  useful.  Thereafter  she  herself  would 
act. 

Hardly  a  month  passed,  nowadays,  without  the  papers, 


168  PANTHER'S     CUB 

even  such  papers  as  the  Morning  Post,  announcing  the 
marriage  of  some  infatuated  young  heir  to  a  peerage 
with  some  terrible  young  person  from  the  chorus  of  a 
musical  comedy.  If  Desmond  should  be  so  lost  as  to 
contemplate  "marriage"  with  the  young  person  in  the 
marble  cottage,  it  was  his  mother's  duty  to  enlighten 
him  as  to  her  character.  These  designing  creatures 
were  always  eighteen,  and  of  unblemished  antecedents 
as  vouched  for  by  the  halfpenny  press.  Lady  Stur- 
minster  knew  her  son  better  perhaps  than  might  have 
been  imagined,  given  their  antithetical  natures.  She 
knew  that,  if  she  could  convince  him  of  certain  things, 
the  irreparable  at  least  might  be  averted.  The  dark 
saying  of  Mr.  Scott  had  been  duly  repeated  to  her :  "  That 
is  a  horse  of  quite  another  colour  and  much  more  likely 
to  run  away  with  him."  Wherever  that  mad  race  might 
lead  him,  it  should  not  be  to  the  altar. 

And  this  was  why  Lady  Alice  sat  waiting  in  her  draw- 
ing room  this  mid-May  morning;  why  Mr.  Scott  entered 
upon  her;  and  why  Sir  Joseph,  summoned  from  the 
library,  followed  after  in  a  state  of  such  overcharged 
importance  that  he  had  to  let  off  steam  in  a  series  of 
snorts  and  puffs  before  he  could  even  shake  hands. 

Averting  his  eyes  from  the  Scylla  of  a  Viennese  bis- 
cuit group  of  the  Three  Graces,  to  fall  into  the  Chary b- 
dis  of  Lady  Alice's  portrait  by  Ellis  Roberts  (leaning, 
clad  in  pink  with  a  white  scarf,  against  a  rose-twined 
pillar)  Mr.  Philip  Scott  fixed  his  glance  upon  his  hostess's 
face  and  prepared  to  enjoy  himself  as  completely  as  such 
distressing  surroundings  would  allow  his  artistic  nature 
to  do. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  169 

There  was  a  torture  of  embarrassment  and  a  shrinking 
aristocratic  distaste  both  to  the  task  imposed  upon  her 
and  to  his  company  written  all  over  the  poor  lady.  To 
prolong  the  torture,  and  to  punish  her  for  the  distaste, 
was  the  visitor's  obvious  task. 

"Charming  day,  isn't  it,  Lady  Alice?  Quantities  of 
people  in  town.  Astounding ! " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  lady,  helplessly.  "We  were 
anxious,  as  my  husband  wrote  to  you " 

"Delighted,"  said  Mr.  Scott.  "Came  a  bit  early, 
I'm  afraid.  But  I  am  due  at  Lady  Charles  Flambo- 
rough's.  She's  got  the  Little  Tweenies  from  the  Coli- 
seum. Have  you  seen  them,  Sir  Joseph?  Astounding 
performance.  Have  you  seen  them,  Lady  Alice  ?  " 

Lady  Alice's  eye  assumed  something  of  her  mother's 
freezing  blankness. 

"No,"  she  dropped. 

"  My  wife,  Lady  Alice "  began  the  M.  P. 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Scott "  she  interrupted,  with  a 

desperate  plunge.  But  the  latter  airily  eluded  the 
threatened  entree  en  matiere. 

"  Quite  so,  Lady  Alice,  you  don't  care  for  such  shows. 
But  really  they're  quite  a  wonderful  little  pair.  Guar- 
cini  is  going  to  sing  too.  You  remember  my  old  friend, 
Guarcini,  Sir  Joseph?  You  met  him  down  at  Brank- 
some." 

"  The  —  the  man  who  —  I  think  I  saw  him  greet 
you,"  murmured  Sir  Joseph  faintly. 

"  Yes,  the  dear  fellow.  Fell  into  my  arms  —  I  should 
have  introduced  him  to  your  husband,  Lady 
Alice " 


170  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"God  forbid!"  said  Sir  Joseph.  He  turned,  explana- 
tory, to  his  wife.  "A  foreign  opera  singer,  my  dear." 

Lady  Alice  cast  down  her  long  pink  eyelids. 

"We  do  not  care  to  know  that  kind  of  people,"  she 
said,  lisping  frigidly. 

"No,"  said  the  Member  of  Parliament;  he  threw  out 
his  chest  and  took  the  lapels  of  his  coat  with  both  hands. 
"Neither  I  nor  my  wife,  Lady  Alice,  care  to  know  that 
kind  of  person." 

Scott,  who  knew  that  Guarcini  would  have  expected 
endless  blandishments  even  to  go  to  Marlborough  House 
unless  the  mood  were  upon  him,  was  seized  with  an 
internal  chuckle  that  crimsoned  his  smooth  pink  face 
to  the  roots  of  his  grayish  blond  hair.  He  looked  down 
at  the  patch  of  expensive  Wilton  pile  between  his  well- 
shod  feet  and  strove  to  conceal  his  amusement  behind 
a  gray  glove  and  an  agate  cane-handle.  Lady  Alice 
looked  agonizedly  at  the  clock.  Mama  might  come 
in  at  any  moment  and  they  had  not  even  managed  to 
start  the  vital  topic. 

"Expecting  many  friends,  this  afternoon,  Lady  Alice  ?" 
asked  the  critic,  raising  his  head  suddenly.  "People  are 
shockingly  late,  these  fine  days,  aren't  they  ?  " 

Husband  and  wife  gazed  at  him,  startled  and  helpless. 

"Afraid  I  must  be  on  the  trot  again,"  pursued  the 
malicious  guest.  "  Promised  the  Flamboroughs." 

"  Mr.  Scott,  oh,  Mr.  Scott "  panted  the  flurried  lady. 

"The  fact  is,  my  dear  fellow "  puffed  Sir  Joseph. 

The  tormentor  had  risen  and  was  holding  out  his 
plump  ungloved  hand. 

"  So  sorry  —  no,  I  can't  stay  for  tea." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  171 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  Dowager  came  to  the 
rescue.  Unannounced,  she  stepped  in  upon  them.  Clad 
in  gray-brown  silk  of  ribbed  texture,  with  an  awe-inspir- 
ing bonnet  tied  with  large  velvet  strings,  she  advanced 
into  the  room,  followed  by  Mr.  Hamilton  who  bore  an 
unwonted  peevish  expression  on  his  meek  beaver  counte- 
nance. And  after  him,  to  the  intense  amazement  of  the 
three,  came  Desmond  Brooke  himself. 

In  her  slow  drive  round  the  park,  expounding  her 
intentions  to  a  for  once  rebellious  Vere  Hamilton,  she 
had  caught  sight  of  her  son  lounging  under  the  trees; 
and  with  an  inspiration  sudden  and  decisive,  resolved 
upon  the  coup-de-main.  Better,  after  all,  that  he  should 
hear  from  other  lips  than  those  of  his  family  what  was 
to  be  heard.  "So  much  more  convincing,"  had  thought 
the  Dowager  in  her  cold-blooded  way. 

It  was  poor  Vere  who  had  to  summon  the  recalcitrant 
one  to  the  carriage  door,  where  the  following  typical 
conversation  took  place : 

"Why,  Mother!" 

The  diplomatist  raised  his  hat.  In  the  company  of 
no  human  being  on  earth  did  he  feel  more  utterly  bored; 
his  eye  immediately  became  lack-lustre,  his  voice  extin- 
guished. 

"You  are  to  get  in,"  commanded  the  lady  without 
wasting  time  in  salutation,  though  they  had  not  met  for 
ten  days. 

"In  there?"  he  asked,  his  eyebrow  raised,  his  eye 
plunging  incredulously  and  disparagingly  into  the  depths 
of  the  antique  barouche. 

"Yes,  in  here,  beside  me.     Mr.  Hamilton  will  sit  back. 


172  PANTHER'S    CUB 

We're  going  to  Alice's.  There's  something  I've  got  to 
say  to  you,  Desmond."  Her  voice  suddenly  dropped 
an  octave  lower,  and  her  pale  eye  took  a  glassy  fixity 
of  purpose.  "You  had  better  come,  my  son,"  it  said 
unmistakably. 

He  returned  the  glance  with  a  long  blank  stare.  The 
sunshine  glinted  on  the  feathers  of  her  bonnet,  mouldy 
green;  on  the  dead-leaf  sheen  of  her  hideous  gown;  on 
the  long  teeth  fixed  upon  the  retreating  lip.  He  had  a 
slight  shudder;  but  he  got  in. 

He  knew  that  she  would  run  him  down  at  his  club, 
or  at  his  chambers,  with  an  inflexibility  of  purpose  the 
more  deadly  for  being  thwarted.  At  least  from  another's 
he  could  take  his  departure  when  things  were  beyond 
bearing;  but  were  he  to  be  caught  in  his  own  lair,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  turn  out  a  lady  and  that  lady  his 
mother.  Let  her  say  her  say:  he  would  say  his.  Up 
to  this  he  had  contented  himself  with  eluding  her;  it 
was  best  perhaps  to  face  her  now  and  have  done  with  it. 

And  thus  it  was  that,  in  the  train  of  the  Dowager  and 
Mr.  Hamilton,  Desmond  Brooke  made  his  unexpected 
call  upon  his  sister,  Lady  Alice  Warren-Smith. 

Lady  Sturminster  settled  herself  into  the  discomfort 
of  a  Birmingham  Louis  XV.  armchair,  and  slowly  turned 
a  scrutinizing  glance  from  face  to  face,  until  it  rested 
on  the  critic's  still  humorously  pursed  countenance. 

"  Is  that  Mr.  Scott  ?  "  she  demanded.    "  Introduce  him." 

Scott  abandoned  his  pretence  of  immediate  departure 
with  a  deprecatory  wave  of  his  hand,  and  went  through 
the  ceremony  required  of  him  with  an  insolence  peculiarly 
his  own. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  173 

"What  a  disgusting  old  woman!"  he  reflected,  even 
as  in  the  Dowager's  own  brain  flashed  the  thought: 
"The  creature's  not  even  the  beginning  of  a  gentleman." 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Scott."  The  general  was  issuing 
her  orders  — "  Sit  down,  everybody.  Sir  Joseph,  sit 
down  —  and  don't  fidget  like  that.  It's  quite  kind  of 
you  to  come  and  see  us,  Mr.  Scott,  when  we  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  Desmond  — "  she 
paused. 

Her  son  had  sunk  upon  a  sofa  at  some  distance,  and 
was  lying  back  in  his  favourite  attitude  of  weary  endur- 
ance, chin  upturned,  eyes  half  closed. 

Scott,  who  had  failed  to  elicit  any  recognition,  glanced 
toward  him.  He  hated  all  these  people,  a  little  more 
than  the  rest  of  the  world  —  though  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  disliked  the  larger  proportion  of  his  acquain- 
tances —  but  most,  he  hated  this  infernal  languid  fellow. 

"You  know  my  son  Desmond,"  proceeded  Lady 
Sturminster.  No  beating  about  the  bush  for  her.  "  You 
know  why  we  have  taken  the  unusual  step  of  request- 
ing you  to  call  here." 

"My  dear  Lady  Sturminster,"  again  Scott  spread 
his  hands  outward,  palm  upward,  "Lady  Alice  asked  me 
to  tea  —  very  kindly 

"  Alice ! "    The  Dowager  flung  one  baleful  look. 

"  I  had  hardly  time  to  explain,  Mama." 

"I  really  think,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton,  getting  up  from 
the  chair  on  which  he  had  been  jigging,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  discomfort,  "  I  really  think  that  I  am  quite  out 
of  place " 

Martia    dropped    him    a    contemptuous    admonition: 


174  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Sit  down — you  are  wanted."  Then  she  caught 
Scott  on  the  hook  of  her  gaze  and  held  him. 

"It  is  idle  to  pretend  you  don't  know  the  circum- 
stances. My  son-in-law  has  already  made  you  acquainted 
with  them  some  time  ago.  You  gave  him  to  understand 
then  that  you  were  in  possession  of  facts  concerning  — ' 
She  paused ;  she  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  the  young 
person  in  question  — "  concerning " 

She  sought  Sir  Joseph's  aid  with  irritation  on  her 
countenance;  but  he  only  stared,  goggle-eyed  and  help- 
less, back  at  her.  Lady  Alice  had  suddenly  begun  to 
blow  her  nose  and  sniff. 

"Concerning  the  Panther's  Cub,  perhaps?"  put  in 
Scott,  silkily. 

"Panther's  Cub!"  echoed  Sir  Joseph  and  his  mother- 
in-law,  simultaneously,  in  different  tones  of  reprobation. 

Desmond  rolled  his  head  a  trifle  sideways,  and  a  gleam 
of  dangerous  eye  became  visible  between  his  half-closed 
lids. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  said  the  innocent  critic.  "It's 
a  nickname  for  the  mother,  Lady  Sturminster:  '  Panther.' 
Suits  her:  lissom,  lovely,  sleek,  dangerous  creature!" 

"  I  am  concerned,  sir,  with  tue  daughter,"  Lady  Stur- 
minster warned  in  her  contralto. 

"  The  daughter,  of  course.  That's  the  Cub.  Panther's 
Cub.  Dear  me,  yes.  Born  in  the  original  jungle :  nobody 
knows  where  that  was.  She  has  been  dubbed  with  some 
kind  of  absurd  Polish  name  she  has  no  shadow  of  right 
to.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Miss  Fifi 

"Fifi!"  ejaculated  the  Dowager,  her  daughter  and 
son-in-law,  in  unison. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  175 

"Only  Christian  name  of  Cub,"  explained  the  critic 
with  his  most  fascinating  smile.  He  was  the  centre  of 
attention  and  that  was  ever  an  agreeable  sensation. 

"Well,  Mr.  Scott,"  said  the  ruthless  Dowager,  "will 
you  kindly  tell  us,  now,  what  you  know  about,  about 
this  —  this  Fifi  creature."  Indescribable  was  the  great 
lady's  tone  of  bleak  contempt. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Sturminster ! "  Scott  wagged  his 
head  jocosely.  ("She  was  impayable"  he  thought. 
What  a  story  he  would  make  of  this !) 

Sir  Joseph  lumbered  up  to  the  assault  in  his  turn. 

"  You  made  some  remark  —  some  pleasantry,  the 
other  day,  about  the  young  person,  hem,  following  in 
her  mother's  footsteps  —  about  her  having  made  already 
—  ah  —  "  The  M.  P.  drew  a  long  breath,  but  the  ribald 
French  words  had  to  be  uttered,  and  stentoriously  he 
uttered  them :  "  having  made  a  faux  pas." 

Scott  burst  into  irrepressible  laughter.  Lady  Alice 
subsided  tearfully  into  her  handkerchief  and  Hamilton 
crossed  the  room  to  stand  beside  Lord  Desmond. 

"You  put  a  stop  to  this  sort  of  thing  the  other  day; 
had  you  not  better  do  so  again  ?  "  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
Poor  little  toady,  and  he  had  been  so  pleased  to  drive 
round  the  park  with  his  aristocratic  friend,  and  to  be 
taken  to  tea  where  she  would!  Desmond  turned  a 
gleam  of  eye  upon  him. 

"This  time  he  may  go  on,"  he  said  unemotionally. 

As  he  spoke,  his  mother  unconsciously  repeated  his 
words :  "  Go  on,  Mr.  Scott." 

"But,  really-  "  Scott  was  coy.  "It  is  so  unusual!" 
He  turned  his  chair  toward  the  sofa  where  Desmond  lay. 


176  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"  We  are  all  waiting  to  hear,'  said  this  latter. 

"To  hear  what?  You  dear,  good  people,  is  not  this 
really  a  little  unusual  ?  Not  that  there  is  any  mystery 
about  the  Panther  or  the  Panther's  Cub.  Cub  took  a 
certain  leap  —  let  me  see,  she  must  have  been  about 
eighteen  then  —  took  a  certain  leap  with  native  impetu- 
osity, under  my  eye  as  it  happens  —  From  Como  it  was." 

"Como!"  gasped  Sir  Joseph.  These  immoral  foreign 
places ! 

"  Speak  plainly,"  ordered  the  Marchioness. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  there  was  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about. 
She  went  off  on  a  little  excursion,  with  a  charming  young 
man  .  .  .  from  the  hotel." 

"A  little  excursion?"  echoed  Sir  Joseph,  much  dis- 
appointed. 

"  Yes,  Sir  Joseph  —  just  two  or  three  days'  jaunt. 
Oh,  his  people  were  annoyed  .  .  .  unduly  so.  He 
was  fetched  back,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Panther  was 
annoyed  too.  General  rumpus  —  very  unpleasant. 
What?  Would  you  care  to  hear  the  name  of  young 
Lothario,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I  daresay  Verie  knows  him. 
Young  Wentworth,  Verie.  Wentworth's  Entire,  you 
know,  the  beer  people." 

Desmond  had  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  really  must  —  "  said  Mr.  Hamilton  inarticulately,  and 
thereupon,  for  the  first  time  in  the  whole  of  his  polite 
existence,  committed  the  solecism  of  taking  French  leave. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  him,  Mr.  Scott  also  rose. 
His  immediate  mission  was  fulfilled,  and  the  situation 
might  lose  its  humour  at  any  moment.  He  bade  good- 
bye with  an  airy  grace,  shaking  Lady  Alice's  limp  hand 


PANTHER'S     CUB  177 

with  the  warmth  of  an  old  friend,  bowing  to  the  Dowager, 
waving  a  valedictory  fin  playfully  from  Desmond  to  Sir 
Joseph.  His  last  words  to  the  latter  from  the  thresh- 
old ran  thus: 

"  Au  revoir.  We'll  meet  again  at  Branksome  before 
long!" 

"  There,  Desmond ! "  said  Lady  Sturminster. 

She  did  not  raise  her  voice,  or  even  deepen  it;  but  its 
tones,  her  whole  air,  the  way  in  which  she  lifted  both 
her  small  brown-gloved  hands  an  inch  or  two  off  her 
knees  and  let  them  fall  again,  bespoke  a  triumph  that  was 
almost  malignant.  She  knew  her  son:  if  he  was  not 
moral,  he  was  fastidious. 

"  Oh,  Joseph ! "  sobbed  Lady  Alice. 

"Wentworth  .  .  .  Wentworth?"  Sir  Joseph  was 
muttering,  as  he  stroked  his  jaw  and  rubbed  his  chin. 
"  I  wonder  if  that  could  be  the  son  of  Colonel  Wentworth, 
the  Member  for  Harrington.  He's  in  the  brewing  inter- 
est, I  know." 

"You'd  better  find  out  what  he  thinks  of  the  young 
lady,"  said  the  Dowager. 

"Do,  Joseph,"  put  in  Desmond,  rising  suddenly  from 
among  the  crimson  satin  cushions.  He  strolled  over  and 
stood  before  his  mother.  "  Why  —  you're  making  quite 
a  gay  dog  of  Joseph ! "  said  he,  with  his  mirthless  smile. 
"No  wonder  Alice  is  in  tears,  over  there.  Well,  good- 
bye, mother  —  good-bye,  Alice.  Ta-ta,  Joseph.  As 
your  friend,  Mr.  Scott,  says:  till  our  next  meeting  —  at 
Branksome." 

"  Desmond " 

The  Dowager's  authority  was  here  supported    by  her 


178  PANTHER'S    CUB 

son-in-law,  who  laid  an  agitated  hand  upon  Desmond's 
coat  sleeve. 

"Stay,"  he  blustered;  "I  cannot  permit  such  imputa- 
tions, such  innuendos!  My  only  motive,  as  you  know  — 
only  a  sense  of  my  duty  to  your  family,  your  mother's 
terrible  anxiety " 

Lord  Desmond  turned  the  flicker  of  a  mocking  glance 
upon  his  mother's  stony  face : 

"  Go   on,    Joseph  —  you're   doing   it   very   nicely." 

"Desmond,  I  went  to — to  those  purlieus  —  to  try 
and  save  you  before  it  was  too  late." 

"And  confoundedly  impertinent  it  was  of  you," 
said  the  diplomatist  serenely. 

The  Dowager  gave  a  withering  smile,  directed  as  much 
to  the  virtuous  plebeian  as  to  her  own  high-bred  profli- 
gate. The  latter,  after  a  second's  consultation  with 
himself,  suddenly  made  up  his  mind.  He  took  one 
of  the  knobby  gilt  chairs  and  sat  down  about  a  yard  in 
front  of  his  mother. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "let's  have  it  out  and  have  done  with 
it.  You  sent  Joseph  to  spy  on  me,  at  Branksome. 
What  was  the  good  of  it  ?  " 

"  Sir  Joseph  was  exceedingly  useful,"  said  the  old 
lady,  unabashed.  "It  was  my  duty  to  know  what  was 
going  on,  Desmond.  And  Joseph  and  Mr.  Hamilton 
both  gave  me  valuable  information  on  the  subject.  I 
understand  that  you  are  pursuing  the  daughter  of  that 
notorious  woman." 

"  Would  you  prefer  me  to  pursue  the  mother  ? " 

"An  entanglement  with  the  mother  would  be  bad 
enough;  but  an  entanglement  with  the  girl 


PANTHER'S    CUB  179 

Desmond  interrupted  the  level  tones  with  a  laugh 
that  was  scarcely  as  assured  as  he  would  have  had  it. 
"  What  are  you  afraid  of  —  my  virtue  ?  " 

His  mother  smiled  again. 

"Her  virtue,  then?  You've  just  heard  all  about  that! 
What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

As  the  old  woman  looked  at  him  in  her  snake-like 
way,  without  speaking,  Sir  Joseph  deemed  it  incum- 
bent upon  him  to  intervene : 

"  Some  irreparable  step  —  some  act  of  fatal  folly ! " 
he  warned. 

"  That  you'll  disgrace  us  all  -  "  sobbed  Lady  Alice 
in  her  turn. 

"What!"  cried  Desmond,  and  laughed  out  loud. 
"You're  all  afraid  I'll  marry  her,  O  moral  Joseph,  O 
Alice,  my  high-minded  sister!  Oh,  Mother  —  his 
voice  took  a  note  of  scathing  bitterness  —  "you  had 
better  have  let  me  marry  poor  little  Susan  all  those  years 
ago,  after  all ! " 

"The  girl's  no  better  than  her  mother,"  said  the  Dow- 
ager, unheeding.  She  brushed  aside  the  reference  to 
the  old  wound,  with  her  own  masterly  relentlessness. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  her  better  than  her  mother," 
exclaimed  the  man. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stood  up.  The  colour  rushed  to 
his  pale  face.  And  extraordinary  passion  fired  his  eye 
and  voice. 

"Now  look  here,"  the  words  rose  quickly  to  his  lips. 
"You  may  as  well  hear  my  views  on  this  subject,  once 
for  all.  It's  none  of  your  business,  but  it  will  save  me 
trouble  in  the  end.  You  all  believe  I  am  going  to  make 


180  PANTHER'S    CUB 

a  fool  of  myself  ?     I  wish  to  God  I  could  —  I  wish  to 
God  I  could!" 

"Tut-tut-tut!"  cried  the  M.  P.  But  his  mother-in- 
law  and  his  wife  sat  staring  at  the  speaker.  This  was 
almost  a  forgotten  Desmond. 

"  Mother,"  he  went  on,  "  it  is  fifteen  years  ago,  now, 
since  you  broke  my  life.  Little  Susan  was  no  match 
for  me.  She  was  only  a  poor  squire's  daughter  —  only 
a  little  flower  of  a  good  dear  child,  whom  I  loved.  You 
schemed  and  intrigued,  and  stopped  my  letters,  and 
warned  her  off  me.  Well,  I  was  too  young  to  guess  then 
half  what  you  did.  Susie's  dead  and  I  —  what  was 
left  alive  of  me,  Vienna  killed." 

"Oh,  Desmond,"  cried  his  sister,  raising  a  shocked 
disfigured  countenance,  "how  can  you  speak  to  Mama 
like  that!" 

No  one  ever  paid  any  attention  to  Lady  Alice.  But 
her  brother  dropped  his  strong  note  of  passion;  he  was 
ashamed  to  have  shown  this  glimpse  of  soul  to  such  futile 
minds. 

"  If  you  wanted  to  study  the  Branksome  sort  of  thing, 
you  ought  to  have  come  to  Vienna,  Joseph,"  he  exclaimed 
banteringly,  turning  to  his  brother-in-law  with  a  satiric 
smile.  "We  men,  as  they  say,  live  in  Vienna.  I  lived 
there.  I  lived  and  died  there." 

"  Good  gracious ! "  spluttered  the  baronet. 

"I've  about  as  much  life  left  in  me  as  that  statue  over 
there.     I'm  a  corpse,  that  is  about  it.     And   precious 
dull  work  it  is,  taking  a  corpse  around.     But  the  girl  — 
His  blue  eye  gleamed  again  as  he  once  more  addressed 
his    mother.     "  The    girl  —  Mademoiselle    Lovinska  — 


PANTHER'S    CUB  181 

Fifi  —  the  Panther's  Cub  —  call  her  what  you  like  — 
well,  she  interests  me.  She  amuses  me.  She  makes 
me  forget  that  I  am  a  corpse.  Hang  it  all,  if  I  want 
to  be  galvanized  now  and  again,  I  won't  ask  my  family's 
permission!  And  that's  what  you'd  better  understand, 
all  of  you!" 

"I  had  hoped,  Desmond,"  said  Lady  Sturminster, 
"that  you  had  given  up  this  absurd  exaggeration,  years 
ago."  Mother  and  son  exchanged  a  deep  look  expressive 
of  a  life-long  enmity. 

"A  corpse!  .  .  .  Galvanized!  .  .  ."  said  Sir 
Joseph,  in  a  scandalized  undertone,  blowing  out  his 
cheeks  between  the  words. 

"And  now  that's  all,  I  think,"  concluded  Desmond. 
"  Good-bye  again." 

This  time  he  was  allowed  to  depart  unrestrained. 
Husband  and  wife  looked  anxiously  at  the  Dowager. 
She  sat  with  fixed  eyes,  gazing  lethargically  before  her. 

"I  am  deeply  distressed,"  the  master  of  the  house 
ventured  to  say  at  last,  as  the  silence,  broken  only  by 
Alice's  sniffs,  grew  unbearable  to  his  fussy  mind.  "I 
am  in  a  state  of  painful  perplexity.  He  says  he  wishes 
he  could  make  a  fool  of  himself.  He  says  he's  a  corpse  — 
and  that  the  —  ah  —  the  girl  galvanizes  him.  Now, 
what  interpretation  are  we  to  put  upon  this  ?  " 

"Joseph,  hold  your  tongue!"  said  his  mother-in-law. 
She  rose  from  her  chair  and  tottered,  ever  so  little.  "  Will 
you  kindly  ring  for  the  carriage  ?  " 


IX 
UNPROFITABLE  THOUGHTS 

DESMOND  went  straight  back  to  his  chambers  in  the 
Albany;  the  secluded  quarters  which  he  had  regarded, 
from  his  student  days  on,  as  his  real  home  in  London. 
Always  held  ready  to  receive  him,  after  an  absence  whether 
of  years  or  of  a  few  days,  they  remained  the  one  link 
with  his  English  past  since  he  had  embarked  upon  the 
cosmopolitan  existence  imposed  on  him  by  his  profession. 

These  were  kept  up  almost  like  the  college  rooms  of 
old,  lined  with  books,  pictures  of  another  age,  portraits 
of  forgotten  chums,  athletic  trophies,  the  lares  and  penates 
of  a  mode  of  life  that  was  past  recall. 

Old-fashioned  they  had  always  been;  in  this  rapid 
era  they  seemed  to  breathe  an  almost  antique  spirit. 
The  only  concession  to  modern  habits  permitted  by  their 
owner  was  the  admission  of  a  telephone. 

He  telephoned  now  for  his  car  to  be  in  readiness  at 
seven  o'clock  and  flung  himself  into  one  of  the  deep 
red-leather  armchairs,  preparatory  to  smoking  a  reflec- 
tive cigar. 

He  had  received  an  urgent  telegraphed  invitation  to 
dinner  at  Branksome  that  night,  which  he  had  accepted 
by  the  same  medium.  But,  a  little  while  ago,  when  his 
mother  had  met  him  strolling  across  the  park,  he  had  once 
again  arrived  at  the  wise  decision  to  resist  the  impulse 

182 


PANTHER'S    CUB  183 

that  was  urging  him  to  Fifi's  presence.  The  mood  of 
"What's  the  use?  Better  keep  away  from  the  danger" 
had  been  upon  him:  that  cold  mood,  to  which  even  the 
most  ardent  and  happy  lover  is  subject  at  times,  and 
which,  with  him,  the  weary  man  of  the  world,  was  ever 
lying  in  ambush.  Lady  Sturminster's  interference  had 
produced  the  not  uncommon  result:  it  had  broken  the 
shackles  of  a  passion  hitherto,  save  for  a  rare  moment 
or  two,  kept  fairly  well  in  leash. 

To  see  him  lying  back  in  his  great  chair,  just  draw- 
ing sufficiently  at  his  cigar  to  keep  it  alive,  with  drooping 
eyelids  and  lax  limbs,  none  could  have  guessed  at  the 
fierceness  of  the  fire  burning  within  him.  The  old  hatred 
seemed  to  join  with  the  new  love  in  a  single  flame.  His 
whole  childhood  his  mother  had  overshadowed;  she 
had  seemed  to  stand  always  between  him  and  the  sun- 
shine. Every  legitimate  hope  of  his  young  manhood, 
his  first  and  honourable  love,  his  prospect  of  a  happy 
home  of  his  own,  she  had  shattered;  unrelenting  in  her 
determination,  without  remorse  after  the  deed.  What 
he  had  become,  a  mere  drifter  in  life,  without  enthusi- 
asm, without  belief,  without  purpose  beyond  the  mere 
routine  of  his  profession,  a  cynic  the  more  hopeless  because 
of  his  capacity  for  high  ambition,  he  had  become  because 
of  her.  The  irredeemable  materialist  is  he  who  has 
once  most  aspired.  Now  the  fire  was  kindling  again 
amid  what  he  had  believed  dead  ashes.  Ah,  let  it  burn! 
He  scarce  cared  what  it  consumed,  so  long  as  he  could 
have  the  joy  of  the  glow.  .  .  . 

The   door   was    opened    gingerly,    and    an    extremely 


184  PANTHER'S     CUB 

fashionable,  extremely  pretty  head  on  an  extremely  long 
throat  was  coyly  inserted : 

"Say,  Desmond!" 

He  started  up,  the  white  ash  of  his  cigar  dropped  from 
the  red  tip. 

"Cassandra!" 

"  Call  me  Cassie,  won't  you  ?  " 

Young  Lady  Sturminster  conveyed  her  slenderness 
delicately  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

"  My  dear  Cassandra  —  Cassie,  then " 

The  fair  young  American's  brother-in-law  stood,  unsmil- 
ing, the  expression  of  boredom  familiar  to  his  counten- 
ance deepening  into  gloom.  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ? 
This  is  ...  this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure ! " 

"Spoke  sarcastic?"  commented  she.  She  came  closer 
to  him,  looking  about  her  curiously.  "What  a  nice, 
shabby,  old  room !  Oh,  I  like  your  old  books,  and  these 
nice  worn,  leather  chairs  —  and  those  Diirer  prints ! 
I  think  Diirer's  just  cunning.  No,  I've  never  been  here 
before  —  have  I  ?  I  thought  I'd  just  come  along." 

She  let  herself  drift  as  aimlessly,  it  seemed,  as  a  float- 
ing apple-blossom  petal  into  the  recesses  of  the  com- 
panion armchair.  Then  she  smiled  in  her  detached 
way  into  his  face. 

"Have  you  also  been  sent  by  the  family?"  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  I  ?  "  She  laughed.  It  was  an  elfish  laugh;  it  seemed 
to  have  little  that  was  human  in  it.  "I  say,  don't  you 
know,  brother-in-law,  that  the  Dow.  hates  me  like  poison  ? 
No,"  the  violet  eyes  became  wistful.  "I  just  came 
along " 


PANTHER'S     CUB  185 

He,  in  his  turn,  let  himself  sink  back  into  his  chair 
and  his  glance  softened  upon  her. 

"Now  what  can  I  give  you?  tea,  whiskey-and-soda, 
or  a  cigarette  ?  " 

He  stretched  out  a  finger  toward  the  bell.  But  she 
shook  her  head. 

"What  a  pity,"  he  pursued,  "you  did  not  come  another 
day  .  .  .  Cassie!  We  might  have  gone  off,  you 
and  I  en  partie  fine;  done  a  dinner  and  a  play.  But  I'm 
bound  out  of  London  this  evening.  Have  to  start  at 
seven." 

He  shot  a  look  at  the  clock :  she  followed  it. 

"Well,  it's  only  just  six,"  she  stated,  and  settled  her- 
self with  satisfaction  in  the  shabby  armchair.  Then  a 
gleam  came  into  her  eyes;  it  had  the  same  elfish  quality 
as  her  laughter.  "  Going  to  Branksome  ?  " 

He  fixed   her  steadily  for  a  moment,  then  nodded. 

"Oh,  Desmond,"  she  said,  clasping  slender  hands  in 
long  buff  gloves,  "do  be  a  darling,  and  get  me  asked  to 
the  next  strawberry  party ! " 

"  Get  Joseph  to  take  you.  He  knows  the  way,"  said 
the  man  grimly. 

"Say  now,  don't!  Be  nice  to  me.  I'm  nice  to  you, 
don't  you  think  ?  Wait  a  bit  till  I  give  you  my  reason. 
I've  got  a  reason,  quite  a  good  one." 

"Not  Joseph's  reason?"  He  smiled  at  her.  It  was 
impossible  to  resist  Cassandra's  airs  of  fascination  when 
she  chose  to  exercise  them. 

"  No  —  a  real  reason  of  my  own." 

"  Feminine  curiosity  ?  " 

"Not  at  all."     She  put  her  head  on  one  side.     The 


186  PANTHER'S    CUB 

shadow  of  the  sweeping  gray  feathers  fell  upon  tin 
oval  of  her  pretty  face.  Her  eyes  were  all  vague 
innocence,  like  those  of  a  very  young  child.  "If  any 
one,"  she  plaintively  proceeded,  "has  a  right  to  see 
Branksome  Cottage  it's  me  —  considering  Sturminster 
built  it." 

"My  dear  Cassandra!" 

"  Oh,  call  me  Cassie !  Why,  you  know  he  built  it  — 
for  Mrs.  Orris." 

"  But  my  dear  —  Cassie ! " 

Gently,  musically  persistent,  her  voice  went  on : 

"I  couldn't  go  and  see  it,  while  Mrs.  Orris  was  walk- 
ing about  in  it,  could  I  ?  But  now  that  Madame  la 

Marmora's  got  it "     Suddenly  she  tripped  up  her 

plaint  with  laughter.  "It's  just  a  bit  of  a  joke,  you 
know.  Wurzel  used  to  run  there  after  his  Orris,  and 
now  you're  running  there,  after  your  Panther!  You're 
just  a  pair  of  you,  real  bad  boys." 

Desmond  looked  at  her  with  a  feeling  very  rare  to  him, 
that  of  amazement.  Was  she  as  callous  as  she  seemed  ? 
Was  there  no  natural  womanly  feeling  behind  this  pretty, 
delicate,  soulless  air  of  fooling  ? 

"But  I  will  say  this  for  you,"  she  concluded,  "that 
you're  a  different  kind  of  bad  boy  from  Wurzel. 
I  rather  think  a  nicer  kind,"  she  added  after  a 
pause. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  Feebly,  he 
assented : 

"Sturminster  and  I  were  always  different." 

"Yes,"  she  admitted  thoughtfully;  "  Sturminster's 
really  the  born  image  of  his  mother." 


'PANTHER'S     CUB  187 

Desmond  gave  a  note  of  laughter  which  all  at  once 
fell  silent. 

"Yes,"  the  soft  little  voice  continued.  "Underneath 
the  froth  and  the  go  —  underneath  it  all,"  she  moved 
her  fingers  expressively:  the  "all"  was  comprehensive 
of  a  very  great  deal,  "  there's  Mama! " 

She  gave  the  arm  of  the  chair  a  little  slap,  and  turned 
the  allurement  of  her  smile  and  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Cassie  —  "  he  hesitated  and  hesitatingly  put  out  his 
hand  to  her,  but  drew  it  back :  he  knew  too  little.  There 
might  be  pain  hidden  away  behind  this  mask  —  and, 
if  so,  what  pride ! 

She  rose  and  smoothed  down  her  sheath-like,  clinging 
skirt.  "It's  settled,  isn't  it?  You'll  bring  me  to  Brank- 
some  ?  " 

Again  he  hesitated. 

"I'll  get  you  asked,"  he  said  grudgingly.  "I  can't 
take  you  there.  I—  Then  upon  an  impulse  he  spoke : 

"  Cassie,  I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself!" 

"Desmond,  you  darling!  .  .  .  Madame  la  Mar- 
mora is  just  a  stunner,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"Pshaw!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
that.  No,  no,  I'm  worse,  Cassie;  it's  the  daughter " 

A  moment  the  two  looked  at  each  other. 

"Oh,  I  wonder,"  she  said,  under  her  breath,  "I 
wonder!"  All  at  once  she  gave  a  quick  sigh  and  turned 
away  resolutely;  but,  from  the  door  she  called  over  her 
shoulder :  "  It's  Tuesday,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"What?" 

"The    next    strawberry    party.     Oh,    don't    forget!" 

"  You  really  want  to  see  that  silly  place  ?  " 


188 

"You  bet  I  do,  my  beau-frere.  You've  no  idea  what 
a  big  cheque  Poppa  had  to  send  over  to  us  that  year!" 
i^assie 

There  was  fierce  disgust  in  the  man's  voice.  Decidedly 
he  had  begun  to  feel  again.  She  laughed  in  her  fairy, 
heartless  way. 

"Why,  that's  where  America  comes  in  so  useful  to 
dear  old  England.  Ta-ta!  Don't  forget." 


X 

A   DINNER  AT  BRANKSOME 

LA  MARMORA  had  quite  a  dinner  party  that  night, 
but  her  impresario  was  not  among  the  guests,  and  Fifi 
was  absent  from  the  board. 

Proportionate  to  the  fever  of  his  desire  to  be  with  her 
was  Desmond's  exasperation  at  this  discovery.  Even 
for  him,  his  air  of  weariness,  as  the  meal  progressed, 
became  noticeable  to  amazement.  Fortunately  for  his 
hostess's  self-satisfaction,  her  attention  was  so  fully 
taken  up  with  the  unwonted  distinction  of  her  company 
that  she  had  little  time  to  spare  for  special  observation. 
And  indeed  even  his  gloom,  his  outrageous  countenance 
of  ennui,  she  was  quite  ready  to  explain  to  herself: 

"  He  expected  to  be  beside  me  —  pauvre  garconf  There 
he  sits  hating  them  all!  Aha!  he  thought  he  was  going 
to  have  it  all  his  own  way  to-night!  A  tete-a-tete,  I  dare- 
say. It  will  do  my  diplomat  no  harm  to  make  him  lan- 
guish a  little.  He  will  see  too  that  here  I  can  have  my 
pick,  if  I  choose.  We  are  no  longer  in  Vienna ! " 

Her  heart  swelled  with  triumph  as  she  glanced  down 
the  long  board.  An  ambassador  —  rien  que  ca!  True, 
he  was  a  bachelor;  though  only  the  more  charming. 
And  then  there  was  his  first  secretary  and  he  was  a 
"marquis."  Pity  he  had  not  brought  his  wife,  that  one! 
She  had  accepted  too,  but  perhaps  her  migraine  was  a 

189 


ISO  PANTHER'S    CUB 

trae  excuse.  Not  dial  it  mattered  indeed.  Fuhia  had 
only  needed  to  telephone  to  her  dear  Lady  Peterborough; 
and  hadn't  dear  Lady  Peterborough  just  hopped  at  the 
chance!  And  then  there  was  the  great  American  painter! 
Madame  la  Marmora  had  quickly  learned  how  to  bait 
the  society  trap.  How  enchanted  he  was,  this  pleasant 
genius,  with  the  entertainment  —  with  the  marble  room, 
the  classic  detail  of  die  feast,  above  aD  with  her,  his 

Td  Kke  to  paint  you,"  he  said,  fixing  her  with  his 
MHy**j*wifF  fimfTiuiinaiiiip  artist  s  eve.  And  rfi^  JLIM*> 
what  an  acknowledgement  that  was.  She  had  heard 
maiiHliiig  about  him:  "A  bear,  my  dear  —  divine 
artist,  but  a  bear!"  ...  A  Princess  TOpitz  had 
cried  herself  skk  last  month:  he  would  not  do  her  por- 
trait, at  any  price.  First  he  swore  that  he  could  not 
bring  I^MM'lf  to  draw  a  woman  who  did  her  hair  a  la 
dbmour:  and  when  she  said  she  would  do  her  hair  any- 
way he  Eked,  he  had  declared  it  was  her  nose  that  was 


And  yonder  sat  tins  great  Larpent,  smiling  and  talk- 
and  eating,  with  ever  and  anon  a  long  appraising 
glance  at  her.  The  names  of  those  two  young  men  who 
displayed  such  wonderful  shirt  fronts  and  collars  were 
in  die  peerage.  Nothing  less  than  a  lord  or  a 
or  an  afit"jf"flili?T  would  seiie  Pnnna  to-mgfat. 
And  die  dear  little  Duchess  of  Glastonbury  —  Fnkia 
knew  that  people  said  things  against  her,  but  she  her- 
self was  quite  sore  ft  was  the  Duke  who  was  to  blame: 
every  ooe  received  her  stiB.  And  she  particularly  wished 
to  show  her  attention.  The  comic  side  of  the  situation 


PANTHER'S    CUB  191 

—  Fulvia  la  Marmora  upholding  a  reputation!  —  never 
struck  her.  But  the  Panther  was  entirely  without 
humour. 

Finally  there  were  two  other  concomitants  to  complete 
her  full  measure  of  satisfaction  this  evening.  She  was 
shining  without  Robecq's  support;  and,  consequently, 
she  had  been  able  likewise  to  eliminate  FifL  No  face 
in  the  room  challenged  hers;  there  were  masculine 
eyes  enough  to  tell  her  so.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
supreme. 

More  from  instinct  than  from  any  innate  good  taste, 
she  had  robed  herself  in  accordance  with  her  ilmiral 
setting.  Happily,  Greek  draperies  were  just  now  in 
fashion.  The  wreath  of  oak-leaves,  once  worn  on  Fifi's 
insolent  youthful  head,  crowned  the  mother's  tresses. 
A  bunch  of  artificial  purple  grapes,  with  long  tendrils, 
was  fastened  on  one  shoulder.  The  green  streamers 
fell  on  the  white  folds,  and  against  the  curves  of  the 
long,  wonderfully  shaped  bare  arms.  She  had  not 
donned  a  jewel  —  her  instinct  again!  She  looked  a 
savage  thing  of  beauty.  The  charming  and  artistically 
impressionable  ambassador  by  her  side  could  scarcely 
remove  his  gaze  from  her,  even  to  attend  to  the  fare  before 
him,  which  was  unique  in  its  out-of-the-way  refinement. 

Madame  la  Marmora,  however  glad  to  be  rid  of  her 
bear-leader  for  the  nonce,  had  not  been  above  profiting 
by  any  hint  dropped  by  his  wisdom  and  experience.  Once 
he  had  casually  remarked  to  her  that  the  head  of  a  cer- 
tian  celebrated  French  firm  of  caterers,  in  Bond  Street, 
was  something  of  a  genius;  and  when  the  singer  had 
conceived  the  daring  scheme  of  this  impromptu  banquet, 


192  PANTHER'S    CUB 

she  had  sent  for  M.  Christophe  —  to  the  fury  of  her 
own  chef. 

"I  want  something  superlative,  something  that  people 
will  talk  about,  something  that  will  .  .  ." 

She  hesitated.     The  little  fat  man  bowed: 

"  Madame  desires  a  sensation  ?  " 

"  Vous  y  etes,  mon  cher"  said  Fulvia. 

His  black  eyes,  sharp  as  gimlets,  roamed  about  the 
marble  reception  hall. 

"Would  it  be  permitted  to  see  the  room  destined  to 
the  repast?"  He  was  promptly  conducted  through  the 
draped  doorway. 

"What  Madame  requires,"  he  then  pronounced,  "is 
a  Roman  feast.  Everything,"  he  went  on,  warming  to 
his  opportunity,"  must  be  as  in  the  days  of  the  Emperors. 
It  shall  be  a  feast  of  Lucullus.  A  feast  of  Lucullus, 
Madame  .  .  .  but  cooked  with  the  latest  art  of 
Paris." 

The  culinary  genius  had  been  given  carte  blancJie, 
and  proved  himself  as  good  as  his  word.  (His  bill,  by 
the  way,  was  to  cause  Robecq,  a  couple  of  days  later, 
considerable  annoyance.)  Every  detail  of  menu  and 
decoration  had  been  left  to  him,  at  his  urgent  request. 
There  was  but  one  item  in  which  La  Marmora  asserted 
herself,  and  the  memory  of  it  was  to  haunt  the  mattre 
de  bouche  with  chagrin  to  his  dying  day.  This  had  been 
the  opportunity  of  his  life,  and  his  triumph  was  not  to 
be  complete.  He  had  wished  his  feast  served  by  boys 
and  maidens  in  appropriate  garments.  Madame  la 
Marmora  had  characteristically  insisted  upon  footmen 
in  powder  and  silk  stockings  "as  in  the  great  houses!" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  193 

And  the  object  of  it  all  —  for  if  she  was  yearning  for 
social  success  and  intoxicated  with  the  pride  of  it,  deep 
down  under  the  froth  of  vanity,  was  always  the  thought 
of  one  man,  the  longing  for  his  notice,  for  his  admiration; 
the  craving  to  make  him  want  for  what  others  wanted 
in  vain  —  the  object  of  it  all,  Desmond  Brooke,  sat  anathe- 
matizing the  whole  tomfool  business,  and  in  chief  his 
own  folly  for  being  of  it ! 

The  ladies  lingered  after  the  usual  time  for  withdrawal. 
Coffee  and  tobacco  were  indulged  in  in  company.  The 
Doric  seats,  though  not  perhaps  the  acme  of  comfort, 
lent  themselves  to  attitudes  of  relaxation  more  than  the 
modern  dining-room  chair.  The  elegant  decorum  which 
had  marked  the  proceedings  hitherto  began  to  give  place 
to  a  subtle  blend  of  bohemianism.  Through  the  vague 
mists  of  cigar  and  cigarette  smoke,  glances  became 
bolder  or  more  veiled.  The  little  South  American  Duch- 
ess began  to  bandy  wits  with  the  more  fatuous  of  the 
gilded  youths;  Larpent  to  talk  in  heavy,  masterful  tones 
across  every  one  else's  conversation,  explaining  how  he 
would  pose  his  hostess  in  the  portrait  he  intended  to  paint 
of  her. 

In  the  midst  of  his  dissertation  he  rose,  came  round 
to  her  and  with  those  great  hands  that  no  one  would 
suspect  of  being  so  delicate  with  the  brush,  set  himself 
to  altering  something  in  the  arrangement  of  her  hair, 
which  he  averred  had  been  annoying  him  the  whole  even- 
ning. 

It  was  so  clearly  the  artist  that  moved  in  him  that  the 
action  seemed  as  natural  as  if  he  had  been  in  his  studio. 


194  PANTHER'S     CUB 

But  Fulvia  understood  and  demanded  no  such  niceties. 
Instantly  she  grew  coquettish. 

"Ah,  but,"  she  cried,  catching  at  his  wrist,  "are  you 
not  a  bold  man  ?  How  do  you  know  that  it  does  not 
all  come  off  ?  " 

He  moved  back  a  step,  surveying  her  solemnly,  all 
to  the  thought  of  his  conception. 

"I  saw  it  didn't,"  he  answered  absently,  making  a 
gesture  with  two  fingers  —  "  by  the  way  it  springs  from 
the  temples." 

Every  one  was  now  looking  at  her;  there  was  suspended 
laughter  on  most  lips.  Only  Desmond  stared  at  the  tip 
of  his  cigarette,  brooding. 

The  Panther  was  without  her  keeper;  without  even 
the  restraint  of  the  presence  of  a  critic  like  Scott.  She 
glanced  down  the  table  at  the  sombre  man. 

"So  we  are  jealous,  my  lord!  Why  then,  you  shall 
be  made  more  jealous  —  aye,  and  be  shown  something 
to  be  jealous  for ! " 

She  swept  her  assembled  guests  with  conquering 
eye. 

"Aha,"  she  laughed,  "how  you  stare!  There's  not 
one  of  them  believes  you,  Larpent.  They  think  I've 
given  myself  away.  But,  there  you  are  —  "  her  strong 
white  hands  plunged  into  those  curls  and  twists  which 
the  hair-dresser  had  elaborated  as  "absolutely  Grecian, 
Madame,"  a  few  hours  before.  She  flung  a  dozen 
tortoiseshell  hairpins  right  and  left,  snatched  away  a 
couple  of  combs,  then  shook  her  head  and  ran  her  hands 
through  the  loosened  locks.  Her  actions  were  as  savage 
as  the  laughter  which  accompanied  them.  So  might 


PANTHER'S    CUB  195 

the  maenad    of    Euripides   have   looked   as   she   sprang 
along  the  mountain  height. 

The  company,  all  excepting  Desmond,  were  amused, 
enchanted,  by  the  incident.  It  was  exactly  thus  that 
they  wished  and  expected  the  great  artist  to  conduct 
herself.  If  your  lions  did  not  roar,  and  if  your  bohemians 
were  not  eccentric,  where  was  the  use  of  knowing  them 
at  all.  This  was  the  deportment  requisite  for  "the 
Panther."  Moreover,  the  glory  that  fell  upon  Fulvia's 
shoulder  and  down  to  her  waist  provoked  a  genuine 
murmur  of  admiration. 

"But  it  is  phenomenal!  It  is  simply  superb!" 
exclaimed  the  ambassador.  He  took  up  a  tress  and 
weighed  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  for  my  sketch  book ! "  cried  the  artist  with  almost 
a  roar  of  regret. 

"What  a  Salome  we  shall  have!"  cried  the  "marquis." 

"  Salome !     .     .     .  echoed  the  prima  donna. 

She  stood  panting  a  little,  trembling  on  the  apex  of 
her  triumph. 

As  they  had  acclaimed  her,  Desmond  had  looked  up 
and  their  eyes  had  met.  In  a  flash,  she  had  thought  to 
see  in  them  a  flame  of  passion,  anger,  jealousy,  reproach. 
It  had  been  all  that  had  been  needed  to  complete  her 
intoxication.  Could  she  have  but  guessed  that  the  man 
she  loved  had  seen  in  her,  beautiful  in  the  glory  of 
her  wild  locks,  a  sudden  resemblance  to  her  daughter, 
and  that  what  now  filled  his  soul  was  loathing;  loathing 
to  horror! 

"  Salome ! "  she  cried  again  on  a  still  higher  key.     "  Ah, 


196  PANTHER'S    CUB 

I  charge  you  all  to  come  to  my  Salome!  You  will  hear 
something,  I  promise  you  —  you  will  see  —  something ! 
It  will  be  worth  your  while ! " 

She  took  a  few  steps  back,  poised  herself  in  the 
centre  of  the  wide  space  away  from  them,  fell  into  an 
attitude,  drawing  her  splendid  arms  upward  through 
her  hair. 

"And  to  think,"  she  proceeded,  dropping  one  arm 
and  holding  the  spell-bound  group  with  the  glance  that 
could  hold  hundreds,  "to  think,"  she  boasted,  "that  my 
idiot  of  an  impresario  wants  to  get  a  dummy  for  the 
dance!  Ah,  mais  non!  .  .  .  shall  I  not  dance  and 
sing  as  well  as  lima  ?  " 

With  a  gesture  as  limber  as  it  was  canaille  she  kicked 
off  both  her  shoes  and  stood  with  shapely  silk-stockinged 
feet,  gripping  the  marble  floor. 

"Shall  I  not  dance?"  she  cried,  shaking  her  mane 
once  more.  She  caught  up  her  draperies  dexterously, 
and  flinging  her  disengaged  hand  aloft  with  inimitable 
sweep,  undulated  through  one  of  those  Eastern,  languor- 
ous movements  which  she  had  been  practising  in  secret 
ever  since  her  arrival  in  England. 

Her  guests  rose  from  their  seats  to  press  forward  in 
eager  knots.  She  saw,  through  half-closed  lids,  the  tall 
figure  of  him  for  whom,  only,  she  was  revealing  herself 
so  wonderful,  dominate  the  rest;  then  her  supple  body 
bent  backward  in  the  gradual  evolution  of  a  dance-phrase 
as  long-drawn  as  a  violin  wail. 

When  she  raised  herself  again,  and  once  again  furtively 
searched,  he  was  there  no  more.  One  of  the  weighted 
purple  silk  curtains  that  hung  between  the  feast  room 


"Shall  I  not  dance  ?"  she  cried,  shaking  her  mane  once  more 


PANTHER'S    CUB  197 

and  the  summer  night  was  still  swaying  as  if  it  had  been 
thrust  aside  by  a  hasty  hand. 

A  sharp  exclamation  escaped  her.  She  stood  staring, 
stiffening  herself,  regardless  of  frenzied  applause,  loud 
acclamations,  hand  clapping,  and  entreaties.  Suddenly 
she  laughed,  laughed  gaily  at  a  thought  that  seemed  to 
have  been  flung  into  her  consternation  like  a  rose  into  a 
dark  room. 

"He  couldn't  stand  it.  I  have  made  him  jealous, 
jealous  with  a  vengeance!  " 

Laughing  still  she  threw  herself  back  into  her  chair; 
the  ambassador  on  one  side,  Larpent  on  the  other,  brought 
her  each  a  shoe. 

"Only  do  not  give  me  away!"  she  implored,  panting. 
"  For  if  my  manager  heard  of  it  —  you  understand.     .     . 
.     .     .     Oh,  la,  oh,  la,  it  is  I  that  would  never  hear  the 
end  of  it!" 

Desmond  hurried  across  the  turf  and  ran  almost  head- 
long down  the  grass  steps  to  the  lower  terrace.  He  felt 
he  must  be  free  even  of  the  shadow  of  the  roof  supported 
by  those  Grecian  columns.  Upon  the  lower  lawn,  circled 
by  syringa  and  lilac  bushes,  he  paused  at  length  and 
inhaled  the  night  air,  with  a  sense  of  laving  himself  as 
if  in  pure  water  from  contamination.  He  could  not  have 
stood  the  spectacle  a  moment  longer.  To  see  her,  at 
her  Eastern  antics,  that  maenad  .  .  .  who  was 
like  his  wood  nymph! 

It  was  a  dim  starlight  night,  with  a  heavy  dew,  and  very 
still.  He  could  hear  the  drip  of  infinitesimal  drops  of 
moisture  falling  all  around  him  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and  the 
whisper  of  the  water  lipping  the  river  sedge  only  a  few 


198  PANTHER'S    CUB 

feet  away.  Now  and  again  a  faint  sigh  seemed  to  sweep 
over  the  garden  as  though  the  night  drew  a  long  breath 
in  her  sleep. 

A  distant  shout  of  laughter,  the  mingling  of  many 
voices  uplifted,  roused  him  from  the  inarticulate  abstrac- 
tion of  wrath  into  which  he  had  fallen.  He  felt,  suddenly 
and  pressingly,  as  if  he  could  not  place  sufficient  distance 
between  himself  and  that  house  to  which  an  equal  fever 
of  impatience  had,  only  a  couple  of  hours  ago,  drawn  him. 
With  a  distaste  that  was  almost  shuddering,  he  thought 
that  he  would  have  to  recross  its  threshold  to  fetch  his 
coat  and  hat;  not  that  he  need  fear  any  encounter:  they 
were  all  too  well  amused  with  each  other  in  the  Greek 
hall  of  feasting. 

Heavily  he  went  along  the  lower  terrace,  through  a 
honeysuckle  pergola  that  was  wickedly  sweet,  seeking 
the  second  grass  staircase  which  he  knew  led  to  the  lawn 
in  front  of  the  reception  room.  As  he  mounted  the  steps, 
he  saw  with  some  annoyance,  that  this  room  had  been 
left  with  undrawn  curtains,  open  to  the  night.  From 
it  long  shafts  of  light  fell  through  the  colonnade  upon  the 
stretch  of  turf  he  would  have  to  cross.  A  moment  he 
almost  drew  back.  Then  another  burst  of  mirth  and 
beat  of  clapping  hands  reassured  him;  he  moved  on 
steadily  toward  the  house. 

He  had  passed  but  half  this  way,  when,  with  a  sharp 
pang  of  emotion,  in  which  he  could  not  distinguish  con- 
sternation from  joy,  he  beheld  a  white  figure  emerge 
from  the  shadow  of  a  column  and  advance  toward  him. 

"I  knew  it  was  you,"  said  Fifi,  still  some  ten  paces 
frorp  him.  And: 


PANTHER'S    CUB  199 

"I  knew  it  was  you,"  he  answered,  standing  still  to 
let  her  approach. 

There  was  such  a  tumult  within  him  that  he  was  scarcely 
aware  that  he  had  spoken.  It  was  as  if  thought  but 
answered  thought.  The  overpowering  sense  of  revolt 
within  him  only  gave  poignancy  to  the  passion  that  he 
had  already  acknowledged  to  himself  as  inevitable  and 
hopeless.  He  cared  too  madly,  he  cared  too  stupidly. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  such  a  woman,  she  was  "the 
Panther's  Cub "  —  what  was  he  doing  here  ?  It  must 
be  the  end,  he  told  himself.  And  then  he  resolved  that, 
since  it  was  the  end,  he  would  kiss  her  once,  once  in 
farewell!  A  kiss,  more  or  less,  to  the  Panther's  Cub 
.  .  .  to  her  who  had  made  that  public  leap,  three  years 
ago,  at  Como!  Well,  it  would  not  harm  her.  While, 
for  him  —  for  him,  it  would  be  pain,  an  ecstasy,  a  memory 
of  what  life  might  mean,  to  carry  away  into  the  dead 
years  to  come. 

So  when  she  came  up  to  him  and  stopped,  a  little 
timidly,  he  caught  both  her  hands  in  his,  clasped  them 
as  he  had  never  clasped  a  woman's  hands  before  in  all 
his  dissipated  and  varied  experience,  and  drew  her  toward 
the  colonnade,  into  the  full  light.  She  gave  way  to  him, 
unresisting.  Just  within  a  rose-hung  arch  he  paused 
and  spoke. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you."  His  voice  was 
very  low,  and  rather  hoarse.  "I  wanted  to  see  your 
face  first." 

He  hardly  knew  himself  what  it  was  he  had  to  say, 
what  wild,  what  foolish  words  before  the  farewell  kiss. 
But,  even  as  he  flung  that  desired  gaze  upon  her, 


200  PANTHER'S     CUB 

thing  seemed  to  break  over  him,  like  a  huge  salt  wave 
and  tear  him  apart  from  his  purpose.  He  stood  staring. 
Her  eyes  were  upon  him,  dilated;  her  face,  a  little  pale, 
was  lifted  confidently;  with  parted  lips  she  seemed  to 
wait  for  an  unknown  wonder,  a  new,  joyous,  beautiful, 
exquisite  moment,  a  gift  of  unutterable  sweetness  that 
she  longed  for  and  yet  was  afraid  of!  Half  child,  half 
woman,  palpitating  toward  him,  yet  almost  trembling 
on  flight,  she  stood,  waiting.  No,  he  could  not  take  her 
into  his  arms,  he  could  not  kiss  her;  he  could  not  speak 
those  words  of  passion,  of  insult  and  renunciation  that 
rose  in  fire  from  his  heart : 

"Panther's  Cub  —  daughter  of  yonder  maenad,  I 
would  fain  go  to  perdition  in  your  arms,  but  I  have  not 
yet  fallen,  so  low !  There  is  yet  something  of  my  father's 
soul  within  me  that  keeps  me  from  this  baseness.  There- 
fore will  I  cut  myself  from  you,  though  it  is  life  itself  I 
part  from.  Only  once  I  must  kiss  you  —  once.  That 
I  may  know  what  life  could  mean ! " 

He  could  not  say  these  words.  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  forehead,  it  was  wet  with  a  cold  sweat. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered.  She  leant  forward, 
and  her  lips  drooped  at  the  corners  like  a  child's  on  the 
verge  of  tears.  A  shadow  of  horror  gathered  in  her 
eyes.  He  tried  to  smile  at  her,  as  one  would  at  a 
child. 

"  Nothing,  nothing  —  good  night,  Miss  Fifi ! "  He 
took  her  hand  once  more  into  his  own  ice-cold  one,  just 
with  the  barest  touch  of  civility. 

"  You  are  going  ?  " 

He  could  hardly  bear  to  hear  the  disappointment  in 


PANTHER'S    CUB  201 

her  voice,  to  see  it  written  on  that  face,  every  line  of 
which  seemed  made  to  express  splendid  joy. 

Then  from  the  dining  room  came  the  loudest  clamour 
that  had  yet  escaped  from  its  merry,  irresponsible  com- 
pany. The  daughter  of  the  house  frowned;  a  slight 
shiver  ran  through  her. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  they  wouldn't ! "  she  said,  fretfully.  Then 
suddenly:  "Oh,  is  that  why  you  are  going?  Because 
of  all  this  noise  and  laughter?  It  does  seem  horrid, 
somehow,  this  quiet,  pretty  night." 

He  looked  at  her  fugitively,  darkly,  with  something 
akin  to  agony  in  his  glance. 

"I  must  go,"  he  repeated,  evading.     "Good  night." 

He  sprang  from  her  into  the  room,  and  across  it 
toward  the  outer  vestibule,  as  if  hunted. 

Disconsolate,  bewildered,  she  followed  him  halfway, 
and  then  paused.  He  looked  back  as  lovers  must,  and 
his  resolution  melted.  He  took  two  steps  toward  her 
again,  his  blue  eyes  shining: 

"Fifi!    ..." 

The  colour  and  light  rushed  back  into  her  face. 

"  You  will  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  will  come  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  with  a 
break  in  his  voice.  The  next  moment  he  was  gone. 


XI 

VALUABLE   INFORMATION 

"  MY  DEAR,"  said  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  —  he 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  dressing  room,  looking  in 
upon  the  horrible  strawberry-pink  splendour  of  the 
connubial  apartment  —  "I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Lady  Alice,  seated  before  the  dressing  table  in  a  blue 
dressing  gown  —  of  the  shade  best  calculated  to  set  one's 
teeth  on  edge  in  conjunction  with  the  strawberry-pink  — 
turned  her  eyes  querulously  upon  her  lord.  Her  pale 
sandy  locks,  already  flecked  with  gray,  were  in  the  hands 
of  her  tirewoman.  Before  her  a  huge,  three-winged 
mirror  reflected  from  three  aspects  her  countenance; 
the  left  profile  was  undoubtedly  the  most  disastrous. 
But  Sir  Joseph  beheld  in  her  a  daughter  of  the  marquis, 
and  for  him  she  walked  in  sufficient  beauty. 

"  Well,  Joseph  ?  "  she  queried. 

In  his  shirt  sleeves  he  stood  adjusting  his  white  tie. 
She  disliked  him  to  display  such  familiarity,  especially 
before  the  servants.  In  the  inmost  recesses  of  her  mean 
nature  she  resented  every  one  of  his  middle-class  ways 
with  an  extraordinary  secret  vehemence;  but  Prince's 
Gate  and  Warren  Park,  a  "sixty  H.  P.  Mercedes,"  and 
Daring  &  Gibbons's  art  and  luxury  were  preferable 
to  Lowndes  Square  and  all  that  appertained  thereto. 

202 


PANTHER'S    CUB  203 

Nay.  it  was  even  conceivable  that,  upon  comparison, 
Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith,  vulgarian  as  he  might  be, 
would  prove  a  companion  preferable  to  Martia  Mar- 
chioness. Lady  Alice  was  too  filial  actually  to  formulate 
such  a  comparison;  but  the  consciousness  of  it  may  have 
helped  her  not  to  quarrel  with  her  bread  and  butter,  had 
she  dared  quarrel.  But,  though  she  might  have  become 
easily  an  adept  in  the  art,  his  wife  could  not  henpeck  him, 
whatever  might  be  the  provocation.  Sir  Joseph  was 
nothing  if  not  master  in  his  own  house.  He  had  all  the 
bourgeois  ideas  of  the  supremacy  of  man,  of  the  husband's 
high  authority.  The  very  name  of  woman  suffrage  was 
anathema  to  him;  it  was  only  before  his  mother-in-law 
that  principle  gave  way.  Now,  Lady  Alice  quickly 
amended  her  querulous  tone  and  sketched  a  smile  as  she 
repeated  her  question : 

"Well,  Joseph?" 

Sir  Joseph,  succeeding  with  some  difficulty  in  adjust- 
ing the  bow  satisfactorily  under  his  swelling  chin,  puffed 
and  snorted  after  his  fashion,  rolled  his  eyes  and  jerked 
his  thumb;  which  signals,  interpreted,  meant  that  he  had 
private  matters  of  importance  to  communicate  and 
desired  the  dismissal  of  the  maid.  Apprehensively, 
Lady  Alice  gave  the  required  order  and  again  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  her  husband  in  a  helpless  stare. 

Ever  since  he  had  been  actually  brought  into  his 
brother-in-law's  affairs,  the  Member  of  Parliament  had 
been  in  a  state  of  perpetual  restlessness,  of  bubbling 
importance;  the  torments,  which  in  this  condition  he 
inflicted  on  his  entourage  were  comparable  only  to  those 
they  had  had  to  endure  during  his  last  electoral  campaign. 


204  PANTHER'S     CUB 

''Well,  my  dear,"  said  he,  closing  the  door  carefully 
behind  him  and  advancing  pompously,  "I  met  Colonel 
Wentworth  in  the  House  this  afternoon.  Met  him 
plump  in  the  lobby !  He  could  not  avoid  shaking  hands," 
said  Sir  Joseph  ingenuously,  "and  I  kept  him  a  few 
minutes  in  conversation."  He  paused  and  blew  himself 
out,  and  his  braces  creaked.  "I  took  the  opportunity, 
my  dear,  of  speaking  to  him  about  this  business,  this 
deplorable  business." 

"Joseph!"  cried  his  wife  sharply,  "you  did  not,  surely, 
mention  Desmond's  name!" 

Something  of  a  glow  of  triumph  faded  from  his  counte- 
nance. He  protruded  his  jaw  and  rubbed  it  with  his 
forefinger. 

"Why,  my  dear  — "  he  flung  her  a  furtive  look;  then 
the  master  of  the  house  asserted  himself.  "I  did  what 
I  considered  necessary.  I  have  obtained  valuable  inform- 
ation. Valuable  information,"  he  repeated.  That  was 
his  mother-in-law's  own  desire,  he  could  not  have  done 
wrong  in  acting  upon  it.  "Mr.  Scott  was  quite  right, 
Alice.  Young  Wentworth  did  go  off  with  that  disrepu- 
table girl." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  gasped  Lady  Alice,  whom  six  years 
of  union  with  Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  had  not  deprived 
of  all  conceptions  of  gentlemanly  behaviour.  "Surely 
he  did  not  tell  you  so ! " 

"I  made  him  tell  me,"  said  the  complacent  go-between. 
"  He  would  have  evaded  me,  I  assure  you ;  but  I  was  one 
too  many  for  him.  'Look  here,'  I  said,  and  took  him 
by  the  elbow,  'you'll  be  doing  a  good  piece  of  work  in 
preventing  an  irretrievable  disaster  to  a  noble  family 


PANTHER'S     CUB  205 

a  noble  family  —  if  you'll  tell  me  the  rights  of  this  busi- 
ness. Did  that  singing  woman's  daughter,  Madame 
la  Marmora's  daughter,  go  off  with  your  son,  or  did  she 
not,  at  Como,  you  know,  three  years  ago?'  ...  I 
am  afraid  Colonel  Wentworth  is  rather  a  bad-tempered 
man.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if  he  was  going 
to  fly  at  my  throat,  he  did  indeed,  Alice!  Then  he  mut- 
tered something  about  its  being  not  my  business,  nor 
anybody's,  if  his  son  had  been  a  young  fool.  You  see, 
he  couldn't  deny  his  son  had  been  a  young  fool.  First 
confirmation.  Then  he  tried  to  make  off,  pulled  his 
arm  away  from  my  hand  quite  rudely  almost.  But  of 
course  he  was  upset  at  the  recollection,  and  I  make  allow- 
ances. '  Just  one  word,'  I  said, '  one  more  word,  Colonel,' 
I  said.  'I  should  be  extremely  obliged  by  your  candid 
opinion  of  the  girl.'  Well,  then,  my  dear,  he  stopped 
and  turned  round  —  he  had  been  positively  running 
away  from  me  —  and  he  said " 

"Oh,  Joseph!"  moaned  the  poor  lady,  and  the  triple 
mirror  reflected  a  most  distressing  spectacle.  "What 
could  he  say  ?  " 

"  Don't  hurry  me,  Alice.  I  am  endeavouring  to  remem- 
ber the  exact  words,  for  they  were  remarkable.  Yes, 
it  was  like  this :  '  My  candid  opinion,  sir,  is  that  the  girl's 
as  bad  as  they  make  them;  and  the  mother's  worse  than 
they  make  them;  but  if  all  I  hear  of  your  brother-in-law 
is  true,  he  about  matches  them.  Good  afternoon.'  Now 
Alice,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"Joseph!"  gasped  the  lady  again. 

Conflicting  emotions  struggled  within  her.  Resent- 
ment that  the  roturier  should  presume  to  discuss  his  noble 


206  PANTHER'S    CUB 

relative  and  repeat  with  such  satisfaction  insulting  com- 
ments upon  him;  resentment  that  the  unknown  brewing 
colonel  should  have  treated  a  rich  and  influential  man, 
her  husband,  with  such  open  rudeness;  a  galling  and 
unwilling  sense  of  this  same  husband's  want  of  breeding; 
of  the  absurd  figure  he  even  now  presented  to  her  in  his 
air  of  jubilation  over  such  an  incident;  and  yet  withal 
an  acrid  righteous  satisfaction  kindred  to  his  own,  over 
this  valuable  corroboration  to  their  worst  suspicions. 
.  .  .  Valuable  corroboration;  those  were  the  words 
now  falling  from  Sir  Joseph's  lips. 

"I  think  it  is  my  duty,  Alice,  to  see  your  brother 
again." 

Lady  Alice  looked  doubtful.  She  muttered,  in  her 
dejected,  rabbit-like  manner  that  she  feared  it  would 
only  make  matters  worse. 

"Then  I  will  tell  your  mother.  Yes,"  he  pursued 
importantly,  "I  will  drive  round  to  Lowndes  Square 
this  evening,  and  inform  your  mother.  She  has  —  ah  — 
placed  so  much  confidence  in  me,  with  regard  to  this 
painful  matter.  Alice  — "  he  read  hesitation  and  dis- 
approval on  his  wife's  countenance  and  was  all  the  more 
determined  —  "I  consider  it  my  duty.  I  will  telephone 
for  the  car." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  self-satisfaction,  loosened 
his  collar  on  either  side,  to  make  room  for  his  bursting 
sense  of  importance,  and  disappeared  within  his  dress- 
ing room. 

Lady  Alice  returned  to  her  mirror  with  a  peevish 
sigh.  She  wished  as  ardently  as  she  could  wish  anything 
that  Joseph  had  not  been  brought  into  this  business; 


PANTHER'S    CUB  207 

she  hated  it  with  all  the  hatred  of  the  ugly  virtuous  woman 
for  the  side  of  life  in  which  feminine  witchery  was  the 
moving  spring.  She  had  made  a  resolve  that  her  husband 
should  never  return  to  those  dangerous  grounds;  the 
adjective  "  alluring,"  which  he  had  used  in  reference  to 
his  hostess  at  Branksome,  rankled  in  the  mind  of  the 
woman  who  could  never  have  allured.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  a  determination  perpetually  reasserted  in  secret,  she 
had  an  uneasy  haunting  that  she  might  not  be  strong 
enough  to  impose  it. 

Sourly,  therefore,  she  saw  him  depart,  after  that  enor- 
mous repast  which  he  owed  it  to  his  wealth  to  have  served 
as  expensively  and  unseasonably  as  possible.  He  was 
the  type  of  man  who  "believed  in  doing  himself  well," 
as  an  acknowledgment  to  his  own  success,  and  who  never 
rose  from  his  board  without  having  disposed  of  at  least 
the  best  part  of  a  bottle  of  the  best  champagne. 

He  was  full  of  valiance  as  he  stepped  into  his  car, 
although  the  big  cigar  had  perforce  to  be  deferred  till 
after  his  important  interview. 

Lady  Alice  withdrew  into  the  vast  unhomeliness  of 
her  drawing  room  and  sat  dismally  stitching  at  a  piece 
of  Church  embroidery. 

She  had  a  faint  malicious  smile  as  the  car  throbbed 
once  again  beneath  the  balconies  within  the  half-hour: 
Mama  had  dismissed  Joseph  with  great  celerity.  But 
when  her  husband  came  in,  panting  more  than  usual, 
there  was  no  sign  of  discomfiture  upon  his  countenance  — 
rather  a  heightened  appearance  of  responsibility. 

"Your  mother,  my  dear,  was  greatly  struck.  Greatly, 
I  may  say  greatly,  impressed  by  my  information.  She 


208  PANTHER'S    CUB 

made  use  of  most  gratifying  expressions.  'Joseph,'  she 
said, '  Joseph,  you  are  invaluable.' " 

Lady  Alice  raised  the  pale  globes  of  her  eyes  incredu- 
lously upon  the  speaker.  But  she  knew  better  than  to 
express  her  feelings  in  words. 

"  Yes,  Joseph  ?  "  she  nibbled. 

"She  immediately  wrote  to  your  brother,"  pursued 
the  other,  sitting  heavily  on  the  crimson-satin  sofa,  knees 
wide  apart,  hands  hanging  loosely  between  them.  "She 
wrote  to  Desmond.  I  suggested  one  or  two  phrases. 
She  read  me  the  letter."  Triumph  was  bursting  from 
him  as  he  spoke.  "It  was  telling,  Alice,  very  telling. 
After  that  we  had  a  little  chat.  That  is  a  very  remarkable 
woman,  a  lady " 

He  broke  off,  his  eyes  met  those  of  his  wife  with  a 
slight  hesitation.  He  leaned  back  and  yawned,  then  sat 
up  and  clasped  those  wide-apart  knees  with  outspread 
fingers. 

"  If  that  letter  fails,"  he  resumed  in  an  off-hand  manner, 
"we  are  agreed,  your  mother  and  I,  that  there  is  only 
one  thing  more  to  be  done." 

Lady  Alice  still  stared,  blinking.  She  knew  what 
was  coming. 

"  I  have  told  her  that,  hem  —  however  distasteful  to 
me  is  the  thought  of,  ahem,  those  purlieus,  that  for  the 
sake  of  the  family,  for  her  sake,  the  sake  of  a  mother's 
anxiety,  I  will  once  again,  if  necessary,  beard  the  lion 
in  her  den  —  I  should  say  the  Panther — "  He  stopped 
to  laugh  at  his  quip ;  but  the  tail  of  his  glance  was  watch- 
ful upon  his  wife's  horror-stricken  countenance. 

"Curiously  enough,"  he  went  on,  pretending  not  to 


PANTHER'S    CUB  209 

perceive  its  horror,  "even  at  the  very  time  of  my  first 
visit  to  Madame  la  Marmora,  I  came  to  a  conclusion 
similar  to  that  expressed  by  the  Marchioness  to-night: 
if  Desmond  will  not  listen  to  reason,  the  —  ah  —  source 
of  the  mischief  herself  must  be  approached;  or  rather 
the  mother  of  the  source." 

"  Joseph ! "  interrupted  Lady  Alice  shrilly,  "  you  are 
not  going  there  again 

"Alice!" 

"I  won't  have  it!"  she  cried.  "It's  shameful!  It's 
no  place  for  a  married  man ! " 

Even  as  she  protested  she  knew  how  utterly  unavailing 
her  protest  would  be:  knew  indeed  that  to  a  man  of  her 
husband's  character,  home-tyrant  as  he  was,  her  atttempt 
to  control  him  was  but  an  incentive.  Yet  would  she 
protest. 

"  It  is  wicked  of  Mama ! "  she  cried,  with  sudden  sobs. 

The  man  rose,  solemnly,  glaring  at  her  with  an  offended 
eye. 

"Alice,  I  am  surprised.  You  know  my  opinion,  my 
regard  for  your  mother.  Have  I  not  even  just  now 
expressed  it?  I  think,  um,  Alice,  the  suspicion  you 
express  of  myself  is  as  injurious  and  misplaced  as  the 
unfilial  remark  that  has  just  escaped  you.  You  will  be 
sorry  for  this,  Alice.  If  a  man,  ha  —  of  unblemished 
repute  cannot  be  trusted  .  .  .  upon  an  errand  of 
duty  .  .  .  Alice,  have  I  ever  given  you  cause  to 
doubt  me  ? " 

"No,"  she  admitted,  fixed  him  with  one  long  pathetic 
gaze,  and  then  sought,  sniffing,  for  her  pocket-handker- 
chief. 


210  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"But  you  told  me  yourself  how  .  .  .  alluring 
she  was,"  wept  she. 

"We  will  not  discuss  this  till  you  are  calmer,"  said 
the  husband  and  stalked  with  great  dignity  out  of  the 
room  in  search  of  his  cigar. 

Though  he  had  deemed  it  incumbent  on  him  to  show 
so  much  displeasure,  in  his  heart  he  was  not  altogether 
displeased.  Indeed,  before  he  lit  his  cigar,  he  surveyed 
himself  complacently  in  the  smoking-room  looking- 
glass. 

It  is  the  strength  of  such  worthy  households  that  in 
an  atmosphere  of  super-abounding  rectitude  no  disturb- 
ing sense  of  humour  can  live. 


BOOK  III 


I 

PLEASURE  AND  BUSINESS 

IF  ROBECQ,  in  his  unavoidable  speculations  on  the  past 
relations  of  his  two  musical  purchases,  had  come  to  a 
definite  conclusion,  he  remained  careful  to  let  no  one  sus- 
pect it,  least  of  all  those  immediately  concerned,  and 
events  had  justified  the  wisdom  of  this  somewhat  cynical 
decision.  For  years  things  had  progressed  very  comfort- 
ably. If  ever  ignorance  was  bliss,  here  had  been  a  case 
in  point.  But  with  his  own  new  projects  concerning 
Fifi,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  a  certain  amount  of  uneasi- 
ness with  regard  to  the  old  musician  whom  he  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  attach  to  his  enterprise.  Fritz  was  still 
an  unknown  quantity.  Fritz  had  not  only  extraordinary 
powers  in  his  own  personality,  but  a  secret  power  over 
"the  Panther"  —  a  power  exclusively  and  relentlessly 
exercised  with  regard  to  "the  Panther's  Cub." 

It  had  suited  the  impresario  well  enough  hitherto  that 
Fritz  should  have  his  own  way  in  this  point;  the  Jew  was 
a  man  of  strong  common  sense  as  well  as  of  kindly  dis- 
position, and  he  quite  approved  of  a  sensible  middle- 
class  education  for  the  child;  approved  too  of  her  being 
kept  as  much  as  possible  from  the  deleterious  influence 
of  an  opera  singer's  entourage.  After  one  disastrous 
summer  holiday  spent  by  mother  and  daughter  in  com- 
pany, he  had  cordially  endorsed  the  policy  which  thereafter 

213 


214  PANTHER'S    CUB 

had  kept  them  separate  for  nearly  three  years.  When 
he  had  telegraphed  the  mother's  summons  from  Vienna, 
he  had  only  done  so  with  the  cynical  prevision:  "It 
won't  last  long  —  it  will  keep  her  quiet  for  a  few  days, 
not  long  enough  to  do  the  child  any  harm." 

What  he  had  not  foreseen  was  the  result  of  the  move 
upon  himself. 

Robecq,  who  had  placed  business  before  everything 
else  in  life;  who  had  twice  married  for  advantage;  who, 
in  his  shrewd  mind,  had  kept  a  genial  contempt  for  the 
master  passion;  had  at  forty-five  (critical  age!)  fallen 
pathetically  in  love.  And  it  was  a  complication.  For 
the  Jew  was  not  yet  so  blindly  in  love  as  to  contemplate 
the  sacrifice  of  the  greatest  stroke  of  business  he  had  yet 
accomplished  and  he  knew  that  there  would  be  "the  devil 
to  pay  with  old  Fritz!"  Upon  him  everything  pivoted. 

So  he  was  torn  this  way  and  that,  between  anxiety  for 
Salome  and  infatuation  for  Fifi;  between  terror  lest  the 
repetitor's  illness  should  interfere  with  the  necessary 
work,  and  consciousness  that  it  suited  his  secret  purpose 
remarkably  well. 

Meyer  was  faithful  to  his  pledge:  already  he  had  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  receive  the  singer  daily  for 
her  daily  "repetition."  From  the  inn  bedroom  he  had 
been  moved  to  a  cottage,  almost  abutting  on  the  grounds 
of  Branksome;  and  in  its  best  parlour  —  only  large  enough 
to  contain  the  Bechstein  upright  and  a  slippery  horsehair 
sofa  —  repetitor  and  prima  donna  had  for  the  last  few 
days  been  hard  at  word  over  Strauss's  complicated  score. 

But  the  manager's  apprehensions  on  this  head  were  by 
no  means  altogether  relieved  by  his  tamer's  return  to  duty. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  215 

He  had  unexpected  trouble  with  Fritz  himself.  Fritz 
disliked  Salome,  disliked  the  idea  of  assisting  in  its  pro- 
duction. A  moment  the  impresario  actually  trembled 
before  the  possibility  of  having  to  forego  his  practically 
indispensable  assistance:  never  had  pupil  and  teacher 
been  on  such  unsympathetic  terms.  He  had  found  La 
Marmora  and  her  repetitor,  more  than  once  at  logger- 
heads, in  the  stuffy  little  parlour. 

One  afternoon  she  returned  to  her  marble  halls  actually 
in  tears. 

"Ah,  ca,  maix,  Robecq,"  she  stormed  at  him,  tearing 
her  Panama  hat  from  her  head,  and  stabbing  it  with 
her  jewelled  hatpin  as  if  she  were  stabbing  her  enemies, 
"it's  becoming  frankly  impossible!  —  Fritz  is  beyond 
bearing.  Ten  times  he  took  me  through  that  first  solo 
of  mine  —  till  I  was  fit  to  scream.  His  ideas  are  not  my 
ideas " 

"I  daresay  not,  my  dear,"  said  Robecq  soothingly; 
but  his  eye  was  upon  her,  measuring.  "Perhaps  you 
were  screaming,"  he  added  as  a  pleasant  suggestion. 

She  glowered  on  him,  without  speaking. 

"You  see,  Fulvia,"  proceeded  the  man,  "Fritz  and  I 
happen  to  be  agreed  on  the  reading;  and  that's  enough 
for  you,  I  think."  He  smiled  disanningly.  "Salome  is 
a  dark  Eastern  nature;  she  reserves  her  passion  for  one 
or  two  supreme  outbursts.  Up  to  that  she  contains 
herself,  elle  se  contient,  you  see  —  that's  just  what  we  want 
you  to  do,  to  restrain  yourself.  Now  you're  inclined  to 
force  the  note  from  the  outset.  You  detract  from  your 
effects " 

He  broke  off.     He  felt  he  might  as  well  talk  thus 


216  PANTHER'S     CUB 

didactically  to  her  savage  prototype.  Fritz  it  was  who 
knew  how  to  manage  her,  with  his  tamer's  eye,  his  unweary- 
ing patience  of  repetition,  his  inflexible  method:  "Wrong 
—  do  it  again."  One  did  not  discuss  with  wild  beasts, 
one  put  them  through  the  task,  till  it  was  learned  at  last. 

"Well,  between  you  two,  your  sacred  Salome  will 
be  a  fiasco!"  she  sobbed. 

"When  you  can  have  your  repetition  here,  it  will 
seem  different,"  he  said  consolingly. 

This  was  to  bring  a  fresh  outbreak  of  complaint:  how 
was  it  possible  to  sing  with  four  walls  on  the  top  of  one, 
with  her  ribs  squeezed  between  the  piano  and  the  sofa 
and  Fritz's  foot  in  its  bandages  making  her  sick!  " Est- 
ce  etonnant  si  fhurle?" 

Robecq  hesitated,  too  much  possessed  by  the  urgency 
of  the  situation  to  find  his  usual  laugh. 

"As  you  say,  my  poor  Fulvia,  it  is  not  astonishing  that 
you  should  howl.  Why  not,  then,"  he  drawled,  "let  the 
old  man  do  as  he  suggests,  and  be  wheeled  down  here  in 
a  bath  chair  for  the  repetition?" 

An  ugly,  sly  gleam  shone  between  her  narrowed  eye- 
lids. 

"That  would  suit  you,  would  it  not?"  she  taunted; 
"that  he  should  be  prying  all  over  the  place  next  Tuesday." 

"No,"  said  Robecq  in  his  candid  way.  "No,  my  dear, 
it  would  not."  His  fingers  played  in  his  clipped  beard. 
"Well,  then,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  possess  our 
souls  in  patience  as  best  we  may." 

"It's  you  that  are  an  idiot!"  she  cried;  "it's  you  that 
have  muddled  everything !  Ah,  sapristi!  —  to  fall  in  love 
at  your  age!" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  217 

"One  falls  in  love  when  one  can  and  when  one  must. 
Our  age,  my  dear 

By  a  convulsive  start  she  warned  him  from  that  delicate 
point;  he  swerved  gracefully. 

"A  man  is  as  old  as  he  feels.  A  woman,  divine  Fulvia, 
.  .  .  finish  the  saying  for  yourself.  Et  avec  ca  — " 
he  dropped  into  his  easy  boulevard  French,  "that  it  does 
not  arrange  you  famously  that  my  little  love  affair  should 
succeed?" 

But  she  was  in  the  mood  for  quarrel. 

"And  it  is  you  who  have  ruined  Fritz,"  she  resumed. 
"What  is  the  old  fellow  but  our  creature  whom  we  pay, 
a  kind  of  servant  when  all  is  said  and  done  ?  —  Why 
don't  you  treat  him  like  one  ?  You've  let  him  get  above 
himself.  In  God's  name  why  should  it  be  an  understood 
thing  that  he  should  come  to  the  house  whenever  he  likes  ? 
Why  should  he  have  the  run  of  my  parties  ?  Answer  me 
that.  Tell  him  to  stay  away  on  Tuesday." 

Robecq  rose  from  his  chair.  When  the  Panther  got 
into  one  of  her  rages  it  was  his  custom  to  put  space  between 
them.  She  was  beginning  to  scream.  He  went,  with 
his  heavy,  picking  tread,  toward  the  nearest  exit.  But 
before  touching  the  portiere,  he  felt  unable  to  resist  the 
impulse  and  turned  for  a  retort.  His  formerly  imper- 
turbable good-humour  was  becoming  impaired  these 
days,  when  for  the  first  time  in  his  well-regulated 
existence,  the  demands  of  business  and  pleasure  had 
come  in  conflict. 

The  glance  that  went  back  to  his  prima  donna  was 
anything  but  benevolent.  She  was  sprawling  on  the 
bear-skin  couch;  panting  breath,  dilated  nostrils,  restless 


218  PANTHER'S    CUB 

hands,  all  portended  the  explosion  it  was  his  interest  to 
avert. 

"Tell  Fritz  all  this  yourself,  Fulvia,"  he  said,  slowly. 

His  gaze  was  steadily  upon  her;  and  he  had  a  small 
chuckle,  for  just  the  cringe  he  expected  to  see  came 
upon  the  tense  frame;  the  furtive  terror,  the  swift  query, 
into  her  eye. 

But,  as  has  been  said,  it  was  far  from  the  impresario's 
policy  to  pursue  inconvenient  knowledge. 

"I'll  send  Elisa  to  you,  with  some  Fleur  d' Granger," 
he  remarked,  in  his  usual  tone  of  urbanity,  after  a  subtly 
impressive  pause.  "You  had  better  drink  it,  and  lie 
down.  Vous  avez  Us  nerfs  agacfo,  tres  chere." 


II 

INNOCENCE  IN  MUSLIN 

IT  WAS  the  last  of  Madame  la  Marmora's  celebrated 
strawberry  parties  —  the  third  of  June.  On  the  fourth, 
the  singer  was  to  retire  from  the  world;  the  star  was  to 
hide  her  effulgence:  Salome,  in  short,  was  to  be  veiled 
until  she  was  ready  to  burst  forth  in  triumph. 

It  was  a  heavy,  brooding  day:  lowering  accumulation 
of  cloud  to  the  north  threatened  a  thunderstorm.  Never- 
theless Madame  la  Marmora's  guests  mustered  in  force. 
It  was  their  last  chance  of  profiting  of  an  unwonted  occas- 
ion; and  all  who  hitherto  had  been  exempt  from  her 
hospitality,  had  left  no  stone  unturned  to  be  included 
this  afternoon. 

Among  these,  young  Lady  Sturminster  made  an  early 
appearance.  The  yellow  Mercedes  which  had  brought 
her  down  from  Park  Lane  also  contained  that  indispens- 
able member  of  society,  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton.  Cassandra 
had  discovered  a  use  for  him  at  last. 

When  the  worthy  gentleman  had  shaken  the  dust  of 
Prince's  Gate  from  his  patent-leather  shoes  on  the  memor- 
able afternoon  of  Lord  Desmond's  declaration,  he  had 
resolved  that  no  power  on  earth  would  induce  him  to  be 
connected  with  the  business  in  question  again.  But  he 
was  not  proof  against  a  pretty,  imperious  note,  inviting 
him  to  lunch  with  and  escort  his  sincerely,  Cassandra 

219 


220  PANTHER'S     CUB 

Sturminster  to  Branksome  Cottage.  —  How  could  any 
Vere  Hamilton  of  this  world  —  proud  of  the  honour  of 
being  on  the  visiting  list  of  an  old  and  ugly  dowager  — 
refuse  to  give  his  company  to  the  young,  pretty,  reigning 
marchioness,  no  matter  where  she  chose  to  take  him! 

And  he  had  indeed  a  most  agreeable  repast,  en  tete-a- 
tete  with  his  hostess;  and  Cassandra  (who  would  have 
made  eyes  to  a  scarecrow)  completely  turned  the  neat, 
sleek  head  of  the  little  man  before  they  had  reached  their 
coffee. 

She  wore  some  kind  of  adorable  lace  confection  with 
bobbing  cherries  on  her  head;  and  it  was  tied  under  her 
chin  on  one  side,  with  a  narrow  red  velvet  ribbon.  The 
garment  that  accompanied  this  artful  headgear  was  of 
a  misleading  white  muslin  simplicity.  Mr.  Vere  Hamilton, 
who  unostentatiously  gave  half  his  income  to  charity, 
would  have  been  genuinely  shocked,  had  he  been  told 
that  this  artless  effect  would  be  jotted  down  at  some  sixty 
guineas  on  Lady  Sturminster's  next  bill  from  the  Maison 
Angele. 

In  comfortable  ignorance,  however,  he  was  able  to  add 
an  exquisite  innocence  of  attire  to  his  hostess's  many 
charms.  Indeed,  until  she  revealed  to  him  the  reasons 
for  her  afternoon  expedition,  he  had  been  basking  in  a 
complete  state  of  satisfaction  compounded  of  admiration 
for  his  companion,  and  a  naive  pleasure  in  his  own  exalted 
position  as  her  escort. 

It  was  on  the  journey  down  that  the  first  shadow  fell  on 
his  content. 

The  car  was  rolling  at  an  agreeably  moderate  pace, 
for  Lady  Sturminster  had  no  notion  of  being  blown  into 


PANTHER'S    CUB  221 

a  guy  (as  she  told  the  cavalier,  with  one  of  her  irresistible 
oeillades)  they  were  proceeding  just  fast  enough  to  produce 
a  desirable  freshness  and  cheat  themselves  into  the  belief 
that  there  was  air  to  breathe. 

"Oh,  isn't  the  country  nice!"  cooed  the  lady,  indicating 
the  green  fields  with  a  vague  gesture  of  delicate  hands. 
"It's  always  been  just  my  dream  to  have  a  cottage  on  the 
river." 

"Surely,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton,  in  his  old-fashioned 
courtesy,  "  you  had  but  to  breathe  the  desire  .  .  ." 

"Breathe!"  she  echoed,  with  her  musical  shallow- 
sounding  laugh;  "I'd  have  blown  a  hurricane  at  him,  if 
it  had  been  any  good.  But,  you  see,  it  was  Mrs.  Orris's 
dream  too!"  She  turned  an  infantile  smile  upon  him. 
But  Mr.  Hamilton  did  not  see  .  .  . 

Good  heavens !  the  bare  idea  was  preposterous.  Charm- 
ing, innocent  lady,  he  would  be  base  indeed  who  could 
put  such  a  construction  upon  her  prattling  lips.  He 
stared  a  second  blankly;  and  then,  blushing  at  himself, 
hastened  to  cover  the  awful  suggestiveness  of  his 
pause. 

"Indeed,"  he  stammered,  "Lord  Sturminster  is  right 
.  .  .  I  apprehend,  I  apprehend,  dear  lady.  The 
river-side  is  becoming  sadly  notorious.  It  would  not  do 
for  people  like  yourself " 

Her  laughter  tinkled  at  him  again. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  minded  so 
much  —  I  needn't  have  been  just  next  door  to  Mrs. 
Orris.  And  anyhow  it  wouldn't  have  altered  facts. 
But  you  see,  all  that  marble  cost  such  a  tarnation  lot! 
I  really  couldn't  ask  Poppa  twice 


222  PANTHER'S     CUB 

She  broke  off.  The  man  was  gasping.  Perspiration 
had  broken  out  on  his  crimsoning  forehead. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  she  went  on.  Her  soft  voice 
took  a  still  softer  inflection,  as  it  were,  of  a  little  pity  for 
his  guilelessness.  "Didn't  you  know  that  Wurzel  just 
ran  that  marble  lodge?" 

Mr.  Hamilton  passed  a  silk  handkerchief  over  his 
countenance. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Sturminster  —  I  trust  ...  I  trust  — 
if  I  have  unintentionally  seemed  to  make  any  allusion  — 
I  assure  you  nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts." 

Coolly  she  commented : 

"Then  you  did  know!"  She  laughed  again;  there 
was  the  faintest  note  of  hardness  now  in  the  tinkle: 
"  Of  course,  everybody  knows." 

She  tossed  the  words  from  her  as  a  child  would  toss  a 
broken  flower,  and  proceeded  confidentially : 

"Now  you  understand  why  I've  been  just  mad  to  see 
the  place." 

Her  companion  fairly  leaped  in  his  seat,  every  nerve 
quivering  as  if  he  had  received  an  electric  shock.  Then 
he  gazed  earnestly  at  the  delicate  profile.  He  half  expected 
to  see  a  drooping  lip,  a  swimming  glance;  almost  he 
hoped  that  the  quiver  in  the  pretty  voice  was  due  to  sup- 
pressed tears.  But  the  corners  of  the  mouth  were  tilting 
upward  and  mirth  once  more  rippled  from  it,  as,  drawn 
by  his  glance,  Cassandra  turned  her  mocking  elf-counten- 
ance upon  him. 

What  was  his  dear  "Society"  coming  to?  He  really 
would  no  longer  be  able  to  frequent  these  selectest  circles 
his  soul  delighted  in,  if  all  his  best  instincts  were  to  be 


PANTHER'S    CUB  223 

subjected  to  such  unpleasant  commotions.  This  trans- 
atlantic crudity  —  well-nigh  amounting  to  a  want  of 
feminine  modesty — outraged  his  most  sensitive  prejudices. 
The  mid-Victorian  woman  of  his  dreams  would  have 
drawn  a  veil  over  her  husband's  peccadilloes;  would  have 
blushed  in  agony  at  the  merest  reference  to  them;  what 
tears  she  would  weep  would  be  wept  in  secret  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  if  his  companion's  velvet  eyes,  with  their 
surface  childlike  candour,  and  their  unchildlike  lurking 
depths  of  cynicism,  read  the  distressed  thoughts. 

"I  reckon  you're  just  shocked  to  fits,"  the  thread  of 
voice  proceeded  with  unaltered  sweetness.  "  That's  your 
British  way,  I  suppose.  Even  Desmond  got  quite  a 
turn  when  I  asked  him  to  tootle  me  down  to  Branksome. 
And  it  ought  to  take  a  good  deal,  you'd  think,  to  shock 
Desmond.  Oh!  that's  just  your  British  way;  and  if 
you  and  he  got  together,  you'd  have  a  little  chuckle  over 
Wurzel  and  his  Orris  and  the  marble  nonsense  and  all 
the  rest  of  it!  And  you're  none  of  you  quite  such  idiots 
as  to  think  that  an  intelligent  woman  of  twenty-five  is 
going  about  London  with  a  bandage  over  her  eyes.  You 
all  know  that  I  know,  but  I  mustn't  speak  of  it  to  you. 
That's  just  shocking  to  your  British  modesty.  I  mustn't 
laugh  at  what  you  men  snigger  over.  It  makes  you 
really  blush.  Now,  Mr.  Hamilton,  if  I  wept  on  your 
shoulder,  you'd  think  it  sweet  and  womanly,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"I  —  ?  —  I ? "  stammered  he,  uncertain  whether  to 
be  appalled  or  transported  at  such  a  prospect. 

"But  because  I  happen  to  see  the  humour  of  the  sit- 
uation, I  have  given  you  a  nasty  jar,  haven't  I  ?  That's 


224  PANTHER'S    CUB 

where  the  difference  between  you  British  and  us  Americans 
comes  in.  But  since  I  married  among  you,  I  am  precious 
glad  to  find  I  have  got  a  sense  of  humour  left.  I'm '  dead ' 
glad.  It's  something  to  have  a  sense  of  humour  left, 
when  the  other  things  go,  isn't  it  ?  —  Ah,  this  is  the  place, 
I  suppose." 

The  motor  wheeled  suddenly  through  two  modest 
iron  gates,  set  hospitably  open  and  flanked  on  one  side 
by  a  tiny  black  and  white  cottage. 

"Well,  I  must  say,"  she  commented,  "I  think  Wurzel 
might  have  risen  to  a  Corinthian  arch,  and  a  marble 
what-do-you-call-it  for  the  gate-keeper.  Considering  the 
amount  of  dollars  that  run  into  this,  it  strikes  me  the 
entrance  looks  pretty  mean  ...  I  think  Poppa'd 
be  hurt,  some." 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  beyond  speech.  His  conscience 
was  smiting  him  acutely  for  every  past  smile  which  it 
now  accused  him  of  having  indeed  bestowed  de  par  le 
monde  on  Sturminster's  infatuation  and  Orris's  Folly. 
But  he  had  not  known  —  on  his  honour  as  an  honest 
little  Christian  gentleman  —  he  had  not  known  that  the 
fellow  had  drawn  for  it  on  his  wife's  exchequer.  How 
could  he  now  explain  this  to  her  ?  He  could  not  explain 
it  to  her.  It  was  impossible.  Yet  that  she  should  so 
misinterpret  him  was  agony. 

"I  hope,"  the  silken  accents  went  on,  "that  we  shall 
find  Desmond  here  to-day.  Oh,  I  hope  we  shall !  Don't 
you?" 

"I— I  — really  - 

The  beaver  was  not  proving  himself  a  brilliant  com- 
panion. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  225 

"No,  of  course  you  don't.  You're  too  thick  with  the 
Dow.  I'm  not.  If  I  could  hate  any  of  my  dear  British 
relations,  I'd  hate  that  old  woman!  She's  got  an  eye 
like  an  alligator.  My  —  what  a  queue  of  carriages ! 
And  isn't  it  hot!  Yes,  I'd  just  love  Desmond  to  defy 
his  mother  —  and  to  many  the  Panther's  Cub." 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  no  reply  to  this  last  enormity.  He 
crawled  out  of  the  car  in  the  wake  of  the  light,  pretty 
figure  in  her  ethereal  white  muslins  and  laces,  limp, 
utterly  dejected,  saddened  to  the  heart. 

"I  will  give  up  London.  I  will  live  in  the  country." 
Some  such  terrible  resolution  was  forming  itself  in  his 
mind. 


Ill 

THE  LAST  STRAWBERRY  PARTY 

THE  air  seemed  stagnant  to  suffocation  upon  the 
terrace  lawn,  although  now  and  again  a  gust  of  wind  would 
shudder  across  the  gardens,  flinging  up  little  columns 
of  dust,  blowing  the  leaves  the  wrong  way  and  shivering 
the  grass  till  the  wiiole  earth  seemed  to  wither  and  turn 
pale  under  it.  The  river  exhaled  dank  smells  of  weeds 
and  slime  as  it  ran  leaden  under  the  leaden  sky.  The 
roses  drooped,  the  scent  of  the  lilies  was  unbearably 
pervasive. 

Madame  la  Marmora's  company  strolled  about  or 
collected  together  in  desultory  and  languid  groups.  In 
the  curious,  glaring  light,  the  paint  on  so  many  of  the 
ladies'  faces  seemed  to  stare  in  all  its  crudity,  like  the 
paint  on  the  face  of  a  clown;  ill-humour  sat  on  most; 
and  the  masculine  element  showed  a  disastrous  tendency 
to  segregate  into  nooks  for  the  consolatory  cigarette. 

La  Marmora  herself  kept  to  her  cedar  tree;  resolved  to 
wait  there  until  a  certain  arrival  which  as  yet  was  delayed. 
She  alternated  this  afternoon  between  a  mood  as  brooding 
as  the  weather  itself,  and  one  of  sudden  vivacity.  When 
in  this  latter  phase  her  voice  rang  out,  her  eye  flashed; 
she  gesticulated  and  laughed. 

Robecq  observed   her  writh   disquietude. 

"She  is  brewing  something,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She 

226 


PANTHER'S     CUB  227 

means  to  bring  our  diplomatist  to  book  to-day,  or  I'm 
much  mistaken.  There'll  be  a  rumpus  as  sure  as  coming 
thunder.  And  the  Lord  only  knows  how  it  will  all  end ! " 

The  impresario  wiped  his  forehead  and  sighed  while  he 
forced  the  genial  smile  and  trivial  remark  that  supple- 
mented the  hostess's  greetings.  In  this  function,  against 
his  wont,  he  remained  beside  her : 

"  Je  ne  la  Idche  pas  d'une  semclle,"  he  had  decided. 

When  Lady  Sturminster  sailed  across  the  lawn,  Fulvia 
received  her  in  the  dark  mood  —  after  one  piercing 
glance  that  sought  in  vain  in  her  wake  for  the  long,  languid 
figure  and  the  pale  unsmiling  face  she  was  waiting  for. 

"Bon,  la  belle-sceur,  apres  le  beau- fr ere!  What  have 
they  got,  these  creatures,  to  persecute  me  like  this?" 
she  was  asking  herself  fiercely.  "First  one,  then  another, 
to  spy  upon  me!  And  where  have  they  hidden  him 
to-day?" 

"How  de  do?"  said  the  American,  her  large  eyes 
appraising  the  Panther  with  some  disappointment. 
Dyed!  Painted!  forty!  And  it's  really  a  common 
face  .  .  . 

Ill-humour  is  an  ugly  emotion.  And  under  an  ugly 
emotion  the  plebeian  betrays  itself. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  La  Marmora,  gruffly,  hardly 
touching  the  slender  fingers.  But  all  at  once  her  counte- 
nance became  irradiated.  The  thought  had  struck  her: 
to  have  so  frightened  his  family,  how  much  he  must  have 
let  them  see  he  cared! 

The  perfect  bow  of  her  mouth  parted  in  a  flashing 
smile.  Her  evelids  narrowed  over  a  sweet  look. 


228  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"I  am  so  happy  to  see  you,  Lady  Sturminster,"  she 
thrilled  with  that  deepening  vibration  of  the  voice  her 
art  had  taught  her. 

Cassandra  stared,  a  little  bewildered.  "And  after 
all,  she's  beautiful  .  .  .!  If  the  girl  is  only  a  patch 

on  her "  She  looked  round  for  the  daughter,  but  met 

the  Baron's  smile. 

Easily  Fulvia  performed  the  introduction.  Of 
course  Lady  Sturminster  had  heard  of  M.  de 
Robecq  ? 

But  it  was  M.  de  Robecq  who  knew  all  about  Lady 
Sturminster;  he  had  met  her  father  in  New  York;  he 
knew  Nicolas  P.  Fish-Cordevant,  that  charming  young 
millionaire,  her  first  cousin;  Mrs.  David  Cordevant- 
Reuter,  her  girl  companion,  was  also  one  of  his  dear 
friends  .  .  . 

Cassandra  brightened  and  dimpled  to  the  familiar 
names,  delivered  in  such  familiar  intonation. 

"I  say,  Baron,  would  you  mind  just  touring  me  round 
a  bit  ?  I'm  wild  to  see  the  marble  halls." 

"Yes,  Robecq,  conduct  Lady  Sturminster,"  commanded 
the  hostess,  still  wreathed  in  smiles. 

The  Baron  had  no  choice  but  to  abandon  his  post. 
Yet  the  task  was  agreeable.  Under  the  shadowy  lace 
brim  of  the  cherry  hat,  Cassandra  looked  down  sideways 
on  the  squat  figure.  A  moment  she  hesitated  upon  the 
effect  of  confiding  to  him  likewise  why  the  marble  in 
question  had  such  special  attractions  for  her;  but  on 
second  thoughts  she  refrained.  He  would  have  laughed 
with  her.  And  somehow  she  would  not  have  liked  to 
hear  that  laugh. 


229 

Desmond  Brooke  took  a  short  cut  from  the  station 
across  the  fields  to  Branksome.  He  had  put  himself 
to  the  discomfort  of  the  train  journey  and  the  walk,  this 
oppressive  day,  rather  than  make  use  of  his  car.  He 
desired  to  arrive  unostentatiously;  he  was  determined 
to  have,  if  possible,  a  chance  of  meeting  Fifi  alone. 

The  man  was  in  a  condition  of  upheaval.  Lady 
Sturminster  had  indeed  known  her  son;  she  had  known 
that,  while  no  consideration  of  conventionality,  of  family 
or  personal  credit,  of  class  distinction,  of  moral  principle 
would  succeed  in  restraining  him,  she  could  count  on  his 
innate  fastidiousness.  But  what  she  had  not  reckoned 
upon,  what  indeed  was  beyond  her  nature  to  understand, 
was  a  passion  so  headlong  as  to  overwhelm  even  the  revul- 
sions of  distaste. 

True  it  was  that,  after  the  interview  in  Lady  Alice's 
drawing  room,  the  man  had  gone  forth  into  the  streets 
feeling  as  if  his  woodland  idyll  had  been  blighted  by  a 
dust-storm.  All  that  was  fresh,  spontaneous  and  pure, 
soiled,  disbloomed,  dragged  down.  Up  to  that  moment 
no  disrespectful  thought  had  been  able  to  live  in  his  mind 
beside  the  image  of  the  girl.  Now,  as  if  ugly,  reptile 
things  had  been  engendered  by  the  mere  poison  of  Scott's 
words  —  his  laugh,  his  innuendo,  his  looks  —  a  host  of 
base  suggestions  had  begun  to  awake  in  his  feelings  toward 
her.  He  had  exclaimed  brutally  that  he  did  not  want 
her  better  than  her  mother;  and  the  lower  side  of  his 
nature,  that  unacknowledged  inherent  part  of  man  (which 
the  high-minded  continue  to  ignore  till,  if  not  dead,  it 
remains  a  negligible  quantity  in  their  existence),  kept 
repeating  the  odious  cry.  But  the  other  part  —  the  soul 


230  PANTHER'S    CUB 

side  which,  in  spite  of  all,  had  remained  strong  in  him, 
which  had  recently,  under  the  spell  of  this  love,  renewed 
something  of  the  generosity  of  his  youth,  was  lamenting 
with  even  louder  voice,  weeping,  as  it  were,  inner  tears 
Jess  for  himself  than  for  her  .  .  .  The  pity  of  it, 
the  pity  of  it  .  .  .!  And,  as  it  lamented,  it  drew 
him  back  from  her. 

How  hideous  the  world  was !  And  how  cruel  life  — 
and  Fate  how  blind!  That  this  youth,  this  creature 
above  all,  it  seemed,  created  virginal,  should  not  have 
been  permitted  to  escape  them.  Man,  Fate,  Life,  between 
them,  like  three  horrible  Nornes,  had  conspired  against 
the  exquisite  promise.  She  had  not  been  yet  eighteen  — 
not  yet  eighteen  .  .  .! 

It  was  a  poor  child  that  had  been  hurt,  irretrievably 
hurt;  and  because  of  this  was  he  going  to  hurt  her  too? 
No!  cried  his  manhood.  No!  determined  his  soul.  And 
then  another  voice  uprose  in  clamour:  How  could  he 
live  if  he  were  to  give  her  up  ?  She  was  something  to 
him  that  she  could  be  to  no  one  else.  She  was  life  itself; 
and  if  he  were  to  cut  this  life  from  him,  how  would  her 
own  future  be  any  the  better.  He  knew  into  whose  hands 
she  was  inevitably  to  fall.  Would  the  Jew's  ignoble 
engouement,  under  its  mock  matrimonial  cloak,  hurt  her 
less,  degrade  her  less  than  a  frank  and  virile  passion  ? 

And  thus  sophistry  added  itself  to  the  struggle  and  the 
man  was  torn  in  the  conflict. 

Yet,  perhaps,  the  higher  nature  might  have  conquered. 
Indeed,  after  the  two  tortured  days  which  had  followed 
his  singular  moonlight  meeting,  he  had  decided  to  break 
his  promise  of  return;  decided  to  put  temptation  out 


PANTHER'S     CUB  231 

of  reach  for  ever,  by  cutting  short  his  leave  and  returning 
to  his  post  immediately. 

But  the  morning  of  the  third  day  had  brought  him  a 
letter  from  his  mother. 

True  to  her  promise,  the  Dowager  without  a  moment's 
delay  had  sent  her  epistle  upon  the  subject  of  Sir  Joseph's 
"valuable  information"  to  the  person  most  concerned: 

"I  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose,"  ran  the  lines,  "that 
you  will  give  me  the  credit  of  believing  that  I  am  actuated 
in  this  unpleasant  matter  by  anxiety  for  your  own  interest. 
Nevertheless,  I  feel  I  should  not  be  doing  my  duty  by  you 
were  I  not  to  let  you  know  of  some  further  details  that 
have  come  to  my  knowledge  —  corroborating  what  you 
yourself  heard  at  Alice's  last  Monday. 

"  Joseph  accidentally  met  Colonel  Wentworth  and  had 
a  short  conversation  with  him,  by  which  it  would  seem  that 
Mr.  Scott  (no  doubt  out  of  regard  for  my  and  Alice's 
presence)  considerably  minimized  the  scandalous  episode 
in  question.  You  will  not  expect  me  to  repeat  here  the 
words  in  which  Colonel  Wentworth  qualified  the  influence 
to  which  his  son,  young  Adolphus  Wentworth,  while  still 
a  mere  undergraduate,  fell  a  prey.  But  you  can  form, 
I  am  sure,  a  very  correct  estimate  of  them  —  you  who 
(I  grieve  to  have  to  write  it)  are  so  familiar  with  that 
unfortunate  side  of  existence.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
girl  was  spoken  of  as  being  'worse  than  her  mother.' 
I  will  add  no  more. 

"Do  not  answer  this;  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  have  to 
write  at  all  on  such  a  subject." 

As  Desmond  read,  he  grew  livid.  The  first  impression 
had  been  the  old  overpowering  sense  of  injury.  That 
was  his  mother  all  over.  Always  she  had  blighted  him  — 
everything  he  cared  for,  everything  he  aspired  to.  Her 


232  PANTHER'S    CUB 

image  rose  before  him  in  the  act  of  inditing  this  very 
document.  He  could  see  her  cold  eye,  her  cold  hand 
at  work.  A  pen  dipped  in  gall!  What  would  she  care 
if  she  had  dipped  it  in  his  heart's  blood  ?  He  knew  the 
horrible,  cold  enjoyment  with  which  she  had  formed 
those  phrases  alleged  to  be  so  painful ! 

He  caught  up  the  sheet  again  and  conned  it  over. 
And  then  the  poison  spread  and  worked ;  his  anger  turned : 
Joseph  was  meddling  still  —  Damn  Joseph!  If  anything 
would  drive  a  man  to  recklessness  it  would  be  the  inter- 
ference of  a  sanctimonious  smug  like  Joseph. 

Then,  all  at  once,  as  if  written  in  fire,  the  name  of 
Wentworth  danced  across  the  page.  Adolphus  Went- 
worth!  He  could  well  imagine  the  youth  .  .  ! 
one  of  those  cursed,  clean-shaven,  up-to-date  young 
ruffians,  flaunting  the  college  colours  abroad  .  . 
with  his  conscious  Oxford  manner  .  .  .  Nausea 
rose  in  him.  Was  he,  Desmond  Brooke,  to  come  after 
an  Adolphus  Wentworth  —  and  God  knows  how  many 
others  .  .  .!  "The  girl  was  worse  than  her  mother 
.  .  ."  And,  after  nausea,  succeeded  a  murderous 
rage.  Byron  wished  that  all  lovely  womanhood  had  but 
one  mouth,  that  he  might  kiss  it.  Fifi's  undeclared  lover 
longed  that  all  his  happier  predecessors  had  but  one  neck 
—  and  he  the  wringing  of  it! 

Inevitably  the  passionate  turmoil  centred  itself  again 
upon  the  supreme  point  —  Fifi !  Under  the  spell  of  the 
indescribable  virginal  innocence  that  seemed  to  encompass 
her  like  invisible  armour,  he  had  scarce  dared,  at  their 
last  meeting,  touch  her  hand.  He  laughed  at  himself 
now,  for  a  fool;  he  railed  against  her  for  a  hypocrite. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  233 

Thus,  like  surging  waters  in  secret  sea  caves,  his  anger 
ground  his  thoughts  to  shingle  in  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

He  was  not  capable  of  coming  to  any  clear  decision  — 
not  capable  even  of  knowing  what  he  wanted;  but,  out 
of  the  turmoil,  one  purpose  shaped  itself:  he  would  see 
her  again,  were  it  only  to  drop  the  name  of  Wentworth 
in  her  hearing  and  watch  her  face.  A  cruel  resolve  and 
a  devouring  curiosity  were  now  upon  him  —  to  speak  of  his 
knowledge  and  to  see  her  face! 

And  thus  it  was  that  he  found  himself  on  his  way  to 
Branksome,  with  slow  and  dragging  footsteps,  traversing 
the  dusty  fields,  but  yet  bent  upon  the  meeting  —  that 
meeting  which  this  time  might  inevitably  be  the  last; 
or  yet  the  beginning  of  a  life  unnamed,  unnameable,  and 
yet  beckoning  .  .  .  calling  as  with  fingers  of  fire, 
with  voice  of  ecstasy  and  tears. 


IV 
STORM  AND  STRESS 

WHEN  a  man  is  forced,  by  external  event  or  internal 
emotion,  to  a  state  of  high  tension,  there  is  added  to  his 
ordinary  faculties  a  kind  of  extra  or  super-sense.  In  the 
genius,  this  becomes  inspiration  and  leads  to  the  master- 
piece; it  is  the  impulse  that  can  turn  the  most  obscure 
of  beings  in  a  moment  to  a  hero.  In  the  ordinary  ways  of 
life,  the  ordinary  man  in  love  will  be  drawn  by  some  such 
super-sense  to  his  beloved. 

Desmond  avoided  the  crowded  lawn  and  the  motor- 
streaked  avenue  and  unerringly  took  the  solitary  shrubbery 
walk  that  led  to  that  secluded  spot  where,  by  the  sun-dial 
he  and  Fifi  had  once  met  and  parted. 

And  there,  indeed,  she  sat,  with  hands  folded  on  her 
knees,  all  white-robed  against  the  dark  wall  of  clipped 
yew.  Her  great,  shady  hat  lay  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

At  the  sound  of  his  steps  she  raised  her  eyes  and  smiled 
at  him.  It  was  as  though  she  had  expected  him  there.  He 
came  slowly  across  the  grass-plot  and  stood  before  her; 
and  then  she  lifted  her  hat  and  laid  it  across  her  knee, 
making  room  for  him  to  sit  beside  her. 

A  smile  trembled  on  her  lips;  but  she  had  cast  her  eyes 
down  at  his  approach,  shyly.  He  had  never  seen  her  in  a 
mood  so  quiet,  so  gentle.  He  took  the  mutely  offered 
seat;  and  then  could  find  no  word  with  which  to  break 

234 


PANTHER'S     CUB  235 

the  silence.  He  was  like  one  intent  on  battle,  who  finds 
himself  suddenly  weaponless.  Those  stirred  deeps  of 
his  nature  had  been  driving  him  out  to  strike  and  wound ; 
and  the  first  look  at  her  bent  head,  the  first  step  into  that 
presence  of  youth  and  confidence,  had  disarmed  him. 
More  than  all,  her  new  timidity;  the  something  at  once 
expectant  and  shrinking,  which  is  as  the  very  bloom  of 
the  maiden  wooed,  paralyzed  his  energies,  confused  still 
further  his  already  confused  mind,  shook  his  purpose 
.  .  .  Was  she  the  most  consummate  actress;  or  had 
nature  itself  set  this  exquisite  mask  upon  the  wanton? 
Or  —  rending  thought!  —  had  she  been  created  of  such 
intrinsic  innocence  and  chastity  that  fate  could  not  all 
destroy;  that  the  vessel  retained  the  divine  pattern,  though 
the  essence  had  fled  ? 

•Ml 

Madame  la  Marmora's  special  Hungarian  minstifels, 
who  had  been  indulging  in  a  rest,  suddenly  broke  forth 
in  the  distance,  with  clash  of  tsimbalons,  maddening 
rhythm,  swing  of  wind-swept  measure  and  wail  of  love 
song. 

The  spell  of  silence  was  snapped  between  them.  Both 
spoke. 

"No  one  knows  I  am  here,  but  you,"  he  said;  while 
she  made  the  admission  which,  in  other  circumstances, 
would  have  fallen  so  enchantingly  upon  his  ears : 
"I  knew  you  would  come  here." 
"Are  we  safe  from  the  Baron,  do  you  think ?" 
Her  young  smile  ran  like  sunshine  over  her  face: 
"The  Baron's  watching  Mama,  as  a  cat  watches  a 
mousehole  to-day.     He's  so  terrified  lest  she  should  knock 
herself  up,  or  anything  —  on  account  of  her  voice,  you 


236  PANTHER'S    CUB 

understand."  Then  she  added  naively:  "And  she 
doesn't  think  you've  come  yet." 

His  eye  brooded  upon  her.  How  much  did  she  know  ? 
Did  she  guess  what  he  could  hardly  avow  to  himself? 
And  was  it  a  simple  matter  to  her?  Was  she,  admittedly 
in  her  own  mind,  her  mother's  rival  ? 

She  went  on,  after  a  pause,  with  a  certain  little  air  of 
dignity  as  new  to  him  as  that  first  show  of  shyness: 

"To  Mama  I  am  still  a  very  little  girl.  She  does  not 
think  I  ought  to  be  alone  with  gentlemen:  she  says  it  is 
so  boring  to  them  when  they  come  here." 

Was  not  this  too  brazenly  to  play  the  ingenue  ?  He 
devoured  her  with  his  eyes;  the  soft  oval  of  her  cheek,  a 
little  pale  to-day  with  the  heat;  the  dewy  candour  of  her 
eye;  the  child-lips  .  .  .!  were  there  indeed  only  a 
conspiracy  to  lie?  Then  what  face  would  Innocence 
itself  wear  to  the  world,  that  it  might  hold  it  sacred  ? 

The  strains  of  the  band  —  that  infernal  Hungarian 
music  —  caught  his  soul  and  tore  it  to  shreds.  One 
moment  he  saw  himself  holding  her  to  him.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  lightning  which  threatened  from  yonder  livid 
horizon  was  flickering  in  his  brain. 

"You  are  not  a  little  girl  any  more,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"No,  indeed — "  she  jerked  her  head.  "Remaining 
at  school  years  and  years  does  not  keep  one  a  little  girl! 
Mama  will  forget  — :  Then,  loyally,  she  amended 
what  might  appear  a  reproach:  "How  can  Mama 
remember,  in  her  busy  life,  with  all  her  great  journeys  ? 
We  have  had  to  be  parted,  and  it  is  Fritz's  fault.  He  is 
always  fussing  about  me  —  Fritz 

His  gaze  was  fixed  upon  her  with  an  expression  she 


PANTHER'S     CUB  237 

had  never  yet  seen  in  it,  an  expression  that  was  almost 
angry  in  its  intensity.  It  began  to  trouble  her;  she  tripped 
upon  her  speech. 

"Who  is  Fritz?"  He  spoke  mechanically,  as  if  he 
too  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"He  works  with  Mama,  and  - 

She  broke  off.  The  low  line  of  sky  before  them  seemed 
to  open  and  shut  upon  an  inner  sullen  flame  of  yellow, 
a  far  mutter  of  thunder  succeeded;  and  then  a  hot  dry 
gust  of  wind. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  storms?" 

She  had  made  a  swift  involuntary  movement  closer 
to  him :  it  would  have  brought  her  into  his  mad  embrace, 
but  that,  once  again,  it  was  so  much  like  the  movement  of  a 
child. 

"I  don't  like  them,"  she  said  plaintively. 

She  made  a  gesture,  appealing.  He  took  her  hand; 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  felt  her  answering  his  clasp  with 
clinging  fingers,  the  storm  broke  in  him  too.  It  was  so 
easy  then  —  so  easy !  —  Why  the  next  minute  her  lips 
would  be  offering  themselves !  —  No  doubt  so  the  blatant 
young  Oxonian  had  found  it  —  and  the  others !  The 
while  she  counterfeited  adorable  young  graces  and  prated 
guilelessly  of  her  years  and  years  at  school  .  .  .  Who 
was  Fritz?  .  .  .  His  thoughts  shot  across  each 
other  like  lightning  flashes  and  his  passion  roared  within 
him.  He  dropped  her  hand,  almost  flung  it  from  him. 

"But  you've  been  in  Italy  so  much  —  the  thunder- 
storms are  much  worse  over  there  —  are  they  not  ?  The 
thunderstorms  at  the  Lakes  for  instance."  His  voice 
was  harsh. 


238  PANTHER'S     CUB 

She  started  and  looked  up  quickly.  The  blood  ebbed 
from  her  face,  her  eyes  grew  suddenly  dark,  and  widened. 
Cruelly  he  went  on: 

"  Weren't  you  at  Como     .     .     .     once?" 

She  drew  back.  A  most  piteous  look  came  over  the 
whole  countenance.  Then  her  sudden  pallor  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  burning,  agonizing  crimson.  He  could  see 
it  rise  over  her  white  bare  throat  to  the  roots  of  her  bright 
hair.  There  was  fear  in  the  glance  that  she  shot  at  him; 
fear;  a  terrified  questioning. 

Then  the  skies  flashed  and  clamoured  all  about  them; 
the  earth  shook  under  their  feet;  the  tempest  wind  beat 
heavy  drops  against  them.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
ran  from  him.  And  as  she  went  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands;  he  thought  he  heard  her  sob. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  a  child.  .  .  He!  to 
maltreat  a  child  .  .  .  Motionless,  he  sat  on  and 
let  the  storm  rage  about  him.  It  was  a  kind  of  relief 
to  that  inner  tempest  that  was  so  much  more  devastating. 
And  yet,  now,  it  was  the  rain  that  was  falling.  His  fire 
and  the  clash  had  dropped  dead  within  him,  and  it  was 
sorrow  that  had  sway.  His  obsession  had  veered  round 
to  another  point  of  his  torturing  circle:  the  pity  of  it! 
She  was  only  a  child  still.  A  frightened  child  —  a  child 
ashamed!  The  pity  of  it! 


V 
FRITZ  IN  COMMAND 

THE  Baron  had  conducted  his  charming  companion 
first  of  all  into  the  reception  room,  which,  with  an  exagger- 
ation of  Americanism,  probably  suggested  by  his  presence, 
she  characterized  as  "just  cunning"  and  "real  cute.'* 
Here  they  found  —  alone  to  enjoy  the  coolness  and 
shadowed  space  this  sultry  day  —  Mr.  Philip  Scott. 

He  opened  astounded  eyes  at  the  sight  of  Lady  Stur- 
minster,  with  whom  he  had  a  slight,  very  slight  acquain- 
tance. 

She  came  forward  toward  him  with  her  light  step  and 
gave  a  cool  little  nod,  just  at  the  distance  that  precluded 
a  handshake. 

"How  de  do  ?  —  I'm  here  to  see  the  marble." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Scott,  "the  marble  is  worth 
seeing." 

As  she  turned,  with  a  soft  note  of  laughter  toward  the 
canopied  couch,  the  critic  flung  a  glance,  charged  with 
meaning,  at  the  impresario;  his  face  crimson  with  the 
laughter  that  any  equivocal  or  possibly  painful  situation 
was  ever  wont  to  arouse  in  him.  "How  much  does  she 
know?"  interrogated  the  pursed  mouth  and  uplifted  eye- 
brow. "Is  it  possible  she  has  come  on  purpose  ?" 

The  Baron,  who  knew  little,  and  cared  less,  about 
London  society  gossip,  believed  these  grimaces  to  refer 

239 


240  PANTHER'S    CUB 

to  the  lady's  relationship  to  Lord  Desmond.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  with  the  slight  gesture  of  upturned  palms, 
common  to  the  race  he  sprang  from. 

"Oh,  say,"  cried  Cassandra,  turning  upon  him  so 
swiftly  as  to  catch  him  in  the  act,  though  her  guileless 
eyes  betrayed  no  consciousness  of  it,  "say,  is  this  Cleo- 
patra-erection of  your  prima  donna's  own  invention?" 

Before  the  Baron  could  reply,  Mr.  Scott  was  at  her 
elbow. 

"No,  Lady  Sturminster,  all  the  decorative  effects  in 
this  — "  he  hesitated  with  a  chuckle,  "this  —  one  hardly 
knows  what  to  call  it,  this  palace,  cottage,  pylon  —  on 
the  whole  I  think  I  prefer  cottage  —  all  the  decorative 
effects  of  this  cottage  in  fact  are  of  Mrs.  Orris's  devising. 
A  lady  not  of  your  acquaintance,  I  presume,  Lady  Stur- 
minster?—  She  is  reputed  of  eccentric  taste." 

"I  suppose  she  just  fancied  herself  on  that  pile,"  said 
the  American,  without  a  blink  of  her  long  eyelashes. 

"It  is  considered  becoming  to  a  classic  figure,"  assented 
Scott,  with  a  sudden  air  of  gravity. 

"Why,  now,  won't  you  just  show  us  its  possibility?" 
cried  she  sweetly. 

Her  laugh  rang  out,  delicately  mocking.  The  Baron, 
between  whom  and  the  critic  there  was  mutual  respect 
but  little  esteem,  joined  in  with  his  flat  nasal  cachinnation, 
without  being  the  least  aware  of  the  hidden  meaning  of 
the  brief  passage  of  arms. 

Mr.  Scott,  who  had  meant  to  punish  the  lady  for  her 
impertinent  nod,  was  punished  himself,  on  his  sensitive 
side.  Horribly  conscious  of  that  outline,  which  was  his 
secret  despair,  for  once  he  was  nonplussed. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  241 

"Ton  honour,  it's  very  hot!"  he  exclaimed  and  passed 
a  silk  handkerchief  over  his  forehead.  "I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  we  had  a  horrid  thunderstorm." 

Hardly  had  he  spoken  the  words  when  the  portentous 
darkness  that  precedes  the  outbreak  fell  upon  the  room 
like  a  pall.  Instantly  the  Baron's  countenance,  which 
still  wore  a  bland  smile,  became  correspondingly  over- 
cast. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  he  cried,  turning  to 
Cassandra,  "but  if  I  don't  go  and  look  after  Madame  la 
Marmora,  she's  quite  capable  of  staying  under  the  cedar 
tree,  and  being  struck  by  lightning,  or  wet  to  the  bone 
in  the  coming  deluge.  Mr.  Scott  will  show  you  the  way 
to  the  dining  room.  —  I've  had  everything  prepared 
in  there,  in  case  we  should  be  driven  from  the  garden." 

He  was  moving  away  as  he  spoke,  with  the  character- 
istic deliberation  that  overlay  even  his  most  urgent  haste. 
His  last  words  floated  back  from  the  colonnade.  "I 
knew  we'd  not  get  through  this  without  a  storm!" 

"Will  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  dining  room?" 
asked  Cassandra,  turning  in  her  most  childlike  manner 
to  Scott. 

"Proud,"  said  the  latter,  stuffing  his  handkerchief 
back  into  his  pocket  and  bowing  sarcastically.  "The 
dining  room  is  quite  in  keeping  —  the  Hall  of  Feasts!  — 
You  will  be  interested,  since  you  are  interested  in  ... 
marble." 

He  thought  he  had  scored  there.  But  as  he  took  two 
short,  consequential  steps  in  front  of  her  he  was  unduly 
irritated  to  hear  her  laugh  again.  After  a  few  more  paces 
he  paused,  however,  to  stare  through  the  narrow  window 


242  PANTHER'S     CUB 

that  gave  on  the  sun-dial  plot,  and  craned  his  neck, 
standing  on  tiptoe  as  he  did  so. 

"If  you  will  come  here,  beside  me,"  he  chuckled,  "you 
may  see  something  that  interests  you,  Lady  Sturminster." 

He  mounted  the  marble  steps  of  the  recess,  and  pointed 
through  the  tell-tale  window. 

Cassandra  Sturminster  stood  still  in  her  turn  and  like- 
wise craned  her  long  throat.  She  half  expected  from  the 
suppressed  excitement  or  malice  in  the  critic's  voice  to 
see  "her  VVurzel  and  his  Orris"  -  What  though  the  latter 
was  reported  to  be  in  America?  —  one  never  knew! 

The  laughter  which  such  a  situation  must  have  called 
forth  from  her  was  already  rising  softly  to  her  lips,  when 
she  beheld,  against  the  clipped  wall  of  yew,  the  dark 
head  and  pale  features,  the  long  gray-clad  limbs  of  her 
brother-in-law;  and  beside  him  a  girl  with  a  ripe  glowing 
face  and  a  glory  of  uncovered  hair.  Instead  of  laughter 
a  gravity  settled  unexpectedly  on  Cassandra's  countenance. 
She  remained  a  second  gazing  profoundly,  wistfully, 
at  the  picture. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  thunder  rolled  again, 
and  the  shudder  of  the  coming  storm  rushed  over  the  gar- 
den. The  girl  in  the  white  dress  flung  out  her  hands  to 
the  man  beside  her. 

Mr.  Scott  tittered,  Cassandra  turned  on  him  sharply. 

"Take  me  to  the  dining  room,"  she  said.  Her  voice 
was  tense  and  scornful.  The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders 
faintly,  and  came  down  from  the  step.  Halfway  across 
the  room  she  halted  again. 

"That  girl — that  exquisite  creature  .  .  .?"  she 
asked. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  243 

Her  companion  made  her  a  little  bow,  with  his  out- 
spread gesture: 

"Panther's  Cub     .     .     .     yes." 

The  first  heavy  driving  raindrops  brought  a  scuttling 
crowd  of  bemuslined  and  befeathered  refugees  into  the 
dining  hall,  escorted  or  followed  by  their  cavaliers.  The 
echoing  marble  hollows  were  filled  with  laughter  and 
chatter;  when  the  great  clap  reverberated,  it  struck  a 
breathless  silence;  after  which  the  human  clatter  began 
again,  at  first  subdued,  then  rising  to  loudness  as  each 
voice  strove  to  dominate  the  others. 

Presently  Mr.  Scott,  holding  Vere  Hamilton  firmly  by 
the  arm,  reappeared  in  the  deserted  reception  room: 

"I  declare,  my  dear  Verie,  that  the  parrot  house  at  the 
Zoo  is  nothing  to  it.  Such  a  cacophony!  —  And  old 
Lady  Constance  more  like  a  cockatoo  than  ever,  wiring 
into  strawberries  again  with  that  ghastly  old  beak  of 
hers!  ...  I  declare  the  sight  of  another  plateful 
will  make  me  sick!  I  must  have  a  cigar.  What  do 
you  say  to  a  'Robecq,'  Verie,  and  a  clean  drink?  If 
I  can  only  get  an  apron  and  streamer  to  attend  to 
me 

So  saying  he  conveyed  Mr.  Hamilton's  form  consider- 
ately toward  the  couch,  relinquished  him,  pressed  the 
electric  bell  that  hung  at  the  head  of  it,  and  let  himself 
slowly  sink  upon  the  bear  skin. 

"Ever  noticed  the  caps  and  aprons  in  these  Grecian 
haunts,  Verie ?  —  Hullo!" 

The  ejaculation  caused  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  had 
remained  standing  dejectedly  where  he  had  been  aban- 


244  PANTHER'S     CUB 

cloned,  to  turn  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  his  companion's 
suddenly  alert  glance. 

Desmond  Brooke  had  entered  upon  a  quick  step, 
promptly  arrested.  His  eyes,  flung  searchingly  round 
the  room,  fell  now  upon  the  two,  with  unmistakable 
annoyance. 

"Hullo!"  said  Philip  Scott  again;  "caught  in  the 
shower,  eh?  I  say,  you're  pretty  wet!  Have  a  whiskey- 
and-soda  ?  —  Who  are  you  looking  for  ?  .  .  .  Ha ! 
wasn't  looking  for  us,  that's  clear.  Isn't  it,  Verie?" 

Lord  Desmond,  without  answering,  came  slowly  down 
toward  them.  As  he  came,  he  shook  the  rain-drops 
from  his  right  shoulder  and  arm. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said  vaguely. 

Scott  pressed  the  electric  button  again,  two  or  three 
times  in  rapid  succession. 

"I  will  have  a  whiskey-and-soda,"  he  declared  and 
drew  his  cigar  case.  "You'd  better  have  one  too;  dry 
you  nicely.  Unless  you're  pining  for  the  menagerie? 
Panther's  got  them  all  next  door.  Feeding-time  at  the 
Zoo.  Listen  to  'em!  You'll  find  a  relation  or  so  — 
Your  pretty  sister-in-law  for  one  —  and  I  should  never 
be  surprised  if  'our  Joseph' " 

He  broke  off  even  as  his  hand  was  again  vindictively 
approaching  once  more  the  ineffective  button:  a  cap  and 
streamer  appeared  behind  a  green  portiere. 

"  Look  here  —  it  was  I  rang." 

The  cap  was  tossed  disdainfully;  a  very  pink  hand 
and  a  very  white  cuff  swept  the  silken  folds  on  one  side. 

"Will  you  please  to  walk  in,  sir?" 

"Sir  Joseph "  exclaimed  the  critic,  and  flung  himself 


PANTHER'S     CUB  245 

back  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter,  out  of  which  he  was  fain 
to  extract  himself  to  arrest  the  departing  maid. 

"Stop  a  minute,  you  there."  He  wagged  his  limp 
hand.  "We  want  a  couple  of  whiskey-and-sodas,  at 
once.  —  D'you  hear  ?  at  once."  His  tone  became 
sharper,  as  he  marked  the  recalcitrancy  in  her  eye. 

At  sight  of  his  brother-in-law,  Desmond  took  a  seat; 
sat  astride  of  it,  and  folding  his  arms  over  the  top,  fixed 
the  newcomer. 

Sir  Joseph  advanced  with  a  far  more  assured  step  and 
bearing  than  that  which  had  marked  his  previous  entrance 
into  these  "purlieus."  He  exchanged  greetings,  with 
something  of  the  melancholy  importance  of  a  chief 
mourner  at  a  funeral,  with  Hamilton  and  Scott.  Then 
he  solemnly  regarded  Lord  Desmond. 

"I  expected  to  find  you  here,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  Joseph,"  said  the  scapegrace.  "I  warned  you 
we'd  meet  at  Branksome." 

"Have  a  cigar,"  reiterated  the  delighted  Scott  —  "Oh, 
here  comes  the  tipple  at  last!  Let  me  mix  you  a  glass, 

Lord  Desmond  ?  No  ? —  Sir  Joseph  ? He  touched 

the  bottle,  engagingly. 

Sir  Joseph  flung  a  look  of  defiance  at  his  brother-in-law. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  he  said  with  dignity.  "I  will,  Mr. 
Scott.  No,  I  thank  you,  not  the  whole  soda.  Thanks." 

Receiving  the  tumbler,  he  added  mysteriously,  bending 
sideways  to  Hamilton. 

"I  should  much  like  a  quiet  word  with  you." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Hamilton.  It  was  his  first  contribu- 
tion to  the  general  conversation.  He  passed  his  hand 
wearily  over  his  brow. 


246  PANTHER'S    CUB 

From  the  colonnade  without  came  the  sound  of  shuffling 
steps  and  the  tapping  of  a  stick.  Mr.  Scott  with  his 
glass  on  the  way  to  his  lips,  paused  and  glanced  across 
at  the  arch,  where  a  burly,  stooping  figure  loomed,  black 
against  the  already  clearing  sky. 

"Hullo!"  he  exclaimed  again;  "what  an  afternoon  for 
happy  meetings !  —  Here's  Mr.  Fritz !  —  I  thought 
Mr.  Fritz  was  laid  by  the  leg." 

"Fritz?"  echoed  Lord  Desmond.     He  turned. 

It  was  an  old  man,  with  a  leonine  white  head,  who  was 
coming  down  into  the  room  —  an  old  man  with  one 
huge  gouty  foot  in  a  cloth  slipper,  walking  with  difficulty. 
The  large-featured,  rough-hewn  face  was  pale  with  recent 
sickness  and  lined  with  ancient  sorrows.  Under  the  bushy 
eyebrows,  stern  eyes,  golden-brown  and  luminous,  looked 
out  upon  them. 

It  was  singular  enough,  but,  as  the  old  man  approached, 
even  Mr.  Scott's  glib  tongue  fell  silent.  This  gentleman 
put  down  his  glass  untasted  and  picked  up  his  selected 
cigar. 

"If  you  please  — "  said  the  newcomer,  halting  in  front 
of  them,  and  leaning  on  his  stick.  —  He  spoke  with  a 
strong  German  accent.  "Gentlemen,  you  must  excuse 

me •"  He  made  a  bow  to  them,  and  limping  painfully 

to  the  side  of  the  room,  pressed  the  electric  bell.  Curiously 
Desmond  watched  him,  as  he  hobbled  back  toward 
them.  Scott  had  lit  his  cigar,  Sir  Joseph  had  half  emptied 
his  glass,  Mr.  Hamilton  was  advancing  a  timid  hand 
toward  the  decanter.  Events  had  so  shaken  the  beaver's 
decorous  soul,  that  he  really  felt  as  if  a  little  stimulant 
was  on  this  occasion  quite  justified. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  247 

With  a  furious  flounce  Apron-and-Streamers  bounced 
in  again,  unexpectedly  prompt. 

"Carry  the  spirits  to  the  smoking  room,  if  you  please," 
said  Mr.  Meyer. 

The  girl  opened  her  lips,  hesitated,  met  his  glance;  and 
without  a  word,  proceeded,  with  a  great  deal  of  action, 
to  take  up  the  tray  again. 

Mr.  Hamilton  had  hastily  withdrawn  his  hand;  Mr. 
Scott,  his  cigar  between  his  lips,  believed  himself  to  be 
smiling  amusedly. 

"If  you  please,"  proceeded  old  Fritz,  addressing  this 
latter,  "will  you  kindly,  Mr.  Scott,  show  these  gentlemen 
the  way  to  the  smoking  room,  since  they  wish  to  smoke.  — 
This,  I  believe  —  "  his  glance  went  slowly  round  the  group 

"this  is  Madame  la  Marmora's  reception  room." 

"Why,  certainly!"  cried  Scott.  "Certainly,  my  dear 
Mr.  Meyer.  If  you  think  that  Madame  would  have  the 
least  objection,  I  should  be  desolated 

"I  assure  you,"  interrupted  Hamilton  much  distressed, 
"I  assure  you  I  hadn't  the  least  idea " 

"Come,  Sir  Joseph,"  said  Scott,  rising.  "The  smoking 
room  is  a  stuffy  little  hole;  but  we'd  better  trot  there,  since 
there's  a  master  of  ceremonies  abroad." 

Sir  Joseph  rose  in  his  turn.  He  was  still  stiffly  holding 
out  his  half -finished  glass. 

"Who  is  that  ?"  he  was  heard  demanding  in  a  stentorian 
whisper. 

"  Panther's  keeper —    -'*  said  Scott  vindictively  in  his  ear. 

Mr.  Hamilton  followed  dreamily.  He  could  not  have 
endured  to  remain  with  Lord  Desmond. 

Desmond,    astride   his   chair,   sat  on,   watching,   with 


248  PANTHER'S     CUB 

inimical  and  cynical  eyes.  The  storm  was  passing  away 
without.  Through  the  open  archways  sweeps  of  exquis- 
itely invigorated,  clean-washed  airs  blew  in  upon  him. 
A  long  shaft  of  exceedingly  yellow  sunshine  flashed  out, 
miraculously  sudden,  upon  the  sparkling  grass;  rifting 
clouds  showed  spaces  of  blue  that  met  the  eye  like  balm 
after  the  livid  darkness.  But  the  storm  in  his  heart  had 
not  abated ;  rather  was  it  ever  more  brooding,  ever  gather- 
ing fresh  threat.  He  could  find  no  ray  of  light  to  illumine 
his  path  or  hers.  The  tears  that  his  inmost  soul  shed  for 
her  scorched,  but  did  not  relieve.  There  was  no  blue 
in  heaven  to  shed  comfort  after  gloom.  The  pity  of  it 
but  made  it  worse:  shame,  there  had  been  shame,  in  her 
eyes!  It  had  been  the  work  of  Hell! 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  caught  into  some  circle  of  the 
Inferno  —  and  it  was  her  young  frank  hand  that  was 
drawing  him  into  it.  With  the  other  she  was  clasping 
some  .  .  .  some  Adolphus  Wentworth!  And  if  he 
held  back  ?  —  if  indeed  he  could  still  hold  back  —  why 
then,  it  was  Robecq,  Robecq  on  his  goat  legs,  that  would 
leap  to  take  his  place.  .  .  . 

And  while  this  fantastic  and  agonizing  turmoil  had 
raged  within  him,  the  outer  self  sat  watching  the  little 
scene,  almost  with  a  faint  amusement.  He  saw  the  exit 
of  the  three  men  with  a  smile.  The  three  men !  Barely  did 
these  "things,"  however  well-tailored  and  finely  shirted, 
come  into  the  category  of  manhood.  By  sheer  strength 
of  his  own  virility,  the  stern  old  German  had  put  them  to 
flight.  Desmond  was  conscious  of  an  idle  curiosity  to 
see  how  he  himself  would  be  dealt  with.  He  struck  a 
match  and  lit  a  cigarette. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  249 

Fritz,  apparently  oblivious  of  his  presence,  was  occupied 
in  removing  the  traces  of  desecration  from  the  marble 
table  beside  the  couch.  He  picked  up  a  half-burnt 
match,  and  limped  across  the  room  to  throw  it  out  of  the 
window;  then  he  limped  back,  and,  with  a  voluminous 
silk  handkerchief,  wiped  the  ring  of  moisture,  left  by 
Sir  Joseph's  tumbler.  The  sound  of  Desmond's  match 
made  him  turn  sharply.  But  though  the  movement 
was  that  of  a  choleric  man,  the  tone  in  which  he  ad- 
dressed the  would-be  smoker  was  as  studiously  polite  as 
before. 

"I  must  beg  of  you,  sir,  either  to  put  out  your  cigarette, 
or  to  follow  the  other  gentlemen."  With  the  hand  that 
still  held  the  bandana,  he  made  a  gesture  as  he  spoke; 
it  was  an  absurd  handkerchief  and  had  just  been  used  as 
a  duster,  but  for  all  that,  there  was  a  broad  and  com- 
manding dignity  in  the  movement.  Vaguely  the  sitting 
man  felt  it;  and  a  touch  of  insolence  came  into  his  cool 
response : 

"Beg  pardon  —  whom  have  I  the  pleasure ?" 

The  great  white  head  was  bowed : 

"Friedrich  Meyer,  sir  —  musician  —  at  your  service." 

The  other  exhaled  a  faint  blue  jet  of  smoke.  He  bowed 
in  his  turn,  ironically. 

"Charmed.—      Musician  did  you  say?" 

"Yes,  §ir.  -  Once  first  violin  in  more  than  one  orches- 
tra, now  -  He  paused,  his  voice  took  a  sudden  down- 
ward inflection:  "now  retired." 

There  was  a  fine  simplicity  in  the  old  man's  speech 
and  air;  something,  too,  of  an  enduring  patience,  as  of 
one  long  braced  to  meet  impertinence.  But  there  was 


250  PANTHER'S     CUB 

something  also  indefinably  warning  in  eye  and  tone,  as 
of  a  gathering  force. 

It  was  this  that  spurred  the  listener  in  his  evil  mood  to 
further  taunting.  He  blew  the  smoke  slowly  down 
his  nostrils;  and  then  said,  drawing  the  cigarette  from 
his  lips  and  tipping  the  ash  with  a  careless  finger: 

"First  fiddle  here,  still,  though,  it  would  seem." 

Then  like  an  organ  crash,  the  old  man's  anger  broke 
forth;  his  hair  seemed  to  rise  round  his  head,  the  bent 
figure  to  expand;  his  glance  measured  and  fulminated. 
Desmond  hardly  knew  if  the  voice  that  accompanied  this 
wrath  was  loud ;  but  it  was  to  him  as  if  the  old  lion 
roared. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Fritz  Meyer.  "Here,  I  am  merely, 
like  yourself,  the  lady's  guest.  But  I  trust,  a  gentleman." 

A  second  the  younger  man's  blue  eyes  remained  arrested, 
as  if  fascinated,  upon  the  speaker.  Then  he  rose. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  quietly  with  an  altered 
air,  "you  are  perfectly  right." 

He  made  a  little  movement  with  his  cigarette  that  was 
almost  like  a  salute;  strode  across  to  the  opened  colonnade, 
and  flung  it  from  him. 

Then  he  returned  to  retrace  his  steps.  He  had  a  sudden 
impulse  to  speak  to  this  strange  old  musician,  who  looked 
so  honest  and  was  so  strong ;  who  assumed  such  unauthor- 
ized authority;  who  was  so  oddly  anxious  for  polite  conven- 
tions in  this  house  of  the  Panther  —  this  Fritz,  whom 
Fifi  had  spoken  of  as  a  power  in  her  life  and  of  whom  he 
had  had  a  moment's  hideous  jealousy.  All  at  once  it 
was  as  if  a  gust  of  wind,  clean  and  wholesome  like  that 
now  rushing  in  the  garden  outside  were  driving  in  upon 


PANTHER'S    CUB  251 

the  darksome  vapours  of  his  soul.    -He  would  speak  to 
him  —  speak  of  Fifi. 

But  even  as  he  turned,  he  was  called  by  his  name; 
called  in  that  silky,  cooing  voice  that  he  had  grown  to 
hate.  And,  staring  down,  blankly,  in  the  direction  of  the 
call,  he  saw  Madame  la  Marmora  coming  along  the  wet 
path,  kilting  her  vapoury  yellow  silk  skirts  together  in  one 
strong  white  hand,  and  showing  each  step  of  arched, 
bronze-shod,  shapely  feet,  as  they  crunched  on  the  gravel. 


VI 
FULVIA  HEARS  THE  TRUTH 

"LET  us  make  a  tour  de  jardin,  Lord  Desmond?" 
she  invited. 

The  man's  eyes  rested  heavily  upon  her.  Fulvia  la 
Marmora  had  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  marble  step  and 
was  smiling  up  at  him.  Under  the  shadow  of  a  monstrous 
hat,  only  her  eyes  and  her  teeth  shone  out  of  the  dimmed 
outline  of  her  face.  The  over-vivid  sunshine  that  had 
followed  the  storm  caught  the  yellow  shimmer  of  her 
garments  sideways  as  if  sketching  her  in  strokes  of  fire. 
She  shifted  the  folds  of  her  uplifted  dress  to  her  left  hand 
and  held  out  her  right.  Into  what  circles  of  unimaginable 
depth  would  he  plunge,  were  he  to  take  that  hand  ?  .  .  . 
It  was  not  possible  for  him  to  conceive  himself  even  touch- 
ing it  without  loathing. 

With  reluctant  foot,  he  came  down  toward  her;  advanced 
into  the  circle  of  her  scented  presence;  and  was  nauseated. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  to  walk  beside  him 
on  the  narrow  path,  "I  wear  the  lily  of  the  valley." 

His  glance  followed  the  gesture  of  her  hand.  A  large 
cluster  of  the  flower,  delicate  spikes  and  dark  summer- 
green  leaves,  was  thrust  among  the  elaborate  lace  and 
embroidery  of  her  bodice.  He  saw,  as  he  glanced,  how 
the  posy  rose  and  fell  with  the  tumultuous  breathing. 
And,  mingled  with  the  artificial  fragrance  that  emanated 

252 


PANTHER'S    CUB  253 

from  her,  the  sharp  sweet  smell  of  the  little  bells  suddenly 
assailed  his  nostrils  ...  So  she  had  cast  her  taint 
even  over  that  symbol !  How  were  it  possible  indeed  that 
innocence  and  purity  should  escape  uncontaminated 
beside  her? 

"You  taught  me  to  love  these  white-and-green  things," 
the  singer  went  on  in  her  soft  notes.  "By  nature  I 
demand  deeper  things,  colour  and  scent  —  the  rose,  the 
carnation.  Before  that,  the  rose  and  the  carnation  were 
my  flowers." 

"Before  what?" 

He  wondered  if  the  exasperation  that  was  driving  him 
would  not,  in  the  mere  sound  of  his  voice,  strike  her  like 
the  lash  of  a  whip.  But,  under  her  outrageous  hat,  she 
was  smiling  still. 

"Why,  before  Vienna,  when  you  sent  them  to  me  — !" 
Then  under  her  breath,  like  a  caress,  she  murmured: 
"Ah,  nigaud,  va!" 

He  flung  a  desperate  look  back  upon  the  house.  In 
twos  and  threes,  vivid  in  the  exaggerated  mode  of  the 
day,  like  some  singular  gathering  of  exotic  birds,  La 
Marmora's  fair  guests  were  tripping  down  the  steps,  and 
spreading  themselves,  with  true  national  disregard  of 
climate,  upon  the  wet  English  lawn. 

Several  couples  were  obviously  directing  their  steps 
in  pursuit  of  their  hostess.  Fulvia  looked  back  in  her 
turn,  and  then  at  her  companion's  pale  and  angry  face. 
Her  smile  became  accentuated. 

"In  effect,  one  has  never  a  moment's  peace!" 

"You  will  have  to  return,"  he  said  wearily. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 


254  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"Ah,  and  I  wanted  to  show  you  a  little  walk  by  the 
river  —  all  syringas  .  .  . !  But  to-night  —  to-night, 
for  you  must  come  and  dine  — "  She  turned  as  she 
spoke;  and  he  turned,  too.  Then  she  halted.  Her 
importunate  visitors  were  but  ten  yards  away:  she  leant 
toward  him,  her  fingers  pressing  on  his  arm:  "To-night, 
by  the  syringas  you  will  tell  me,  if  it  is  always  'muguet' 
you  would  give  me " 

Her  breath  fanned  his  cheek;  she  drew  back;  her  eyes 
circled  fire  upon  him.  The  next  moment  she  was  hurry- 
ing forward,  both  hands  outstretched.  The  ultra  honey- 
sweet  accents  of  her  society  voice  were  ringing  out: 

"What! —  Not  going  already,  dear  Lady  Peter- 
borough!" 

Desmond  had  stood  staring.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
scorched  by  a  breath  from  hell;  marked  and  coveted  by 
the  eyes  of  a  hawk.  The  echoes  of  that  strident  whisper 
rang  still  in  his  soul,  unclean  —  if  a  sound  can  be  unclean. 
He  walked  moodily  on  a  pace  or  two;  and  a  bough  of  sy- 
ringa  bush  caught  him  across  the  chest  and  flung  a  heavy, 
perfumed  spray  into  his  face.  He  had  a  swift  memory 
of  that  evening  when  he  had  sought  refuge  in  the  lower 
lawn,  in  silence  and  darkness,  from  the  brightness  and 
horrible  gaiety  of  the  feast  in  the  marble  room;  how  he 
had  come  up  to  the  house  with  the  smell  of  the  syringa 
in  his  nostrils  —  and  found  Fifi.  How  wild  and  passion- 
ate had  been  his  resolves  then,  and  how  they  had  all 
fallen  away  from  him  when  he  had  seen  her  face!  That 
was  what,  in  spite  of  everything,  Fifi  remained  to  him: 
like  a  branch  of  wild  blossom  that  dashed  its  sweetness 
against  him,  striking  him  with  her  very  freshness. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  255 

He  would  come  and  dine;  but  if  he  went  down  among 
the  syringas,  it  would  not  be  with  Madame  la  Marmora. 

The  so-called  smoking  room  was  a  dark  little  three- 
cornered  apartment,  which  had  remained,  untouched, 
from  the  original  building.  It  was  little  likely  to  be  used, 
either  by  the  former  or  the  present  mistress  of  Brank- 
some.  It  had  an  innocent  rosebud  wall  paper,  deep 
window-seats,  diamond  panes  and  the  faint  musty  atmos- 
phere peculiar  to  cottage  structures. 

Scott  ensconced  himself  in  the  window,  and  Sir  Joseph 
took  up  his  favourite  commanding  position  on  the  hearth- 
rug before  the  empty  grate. 

As  the  maid  deposited  the  tray,  with  protesting  clatter, 
on  a  rather  lopsided  gate-legged  table,  both  men  instinc- 
tively looked  round  for  Hamilton,  to  find  that  he  was  gone. 

Sir  Joseph  distended  his  nostrils  after  his  bovine  way. 
He  regarded  it  as  a  want  of  courtesy  that  the  friend  of  the 
family  should  thus  unceremoniously  take  his  departure 
from  a  company  which  he,  Sir  Joseph,  had  just  joined  — 
more  especially  as  he  had  expressed  his  desire  for  a  private 
conversation.  It  almost  looked  as  if  Mr.  Hamilton  was 
avoiding  this.  Sir  Joseph  had  had  doubts  —  serious 
doubts  —  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  loyalty  already. 

Scott  surveyed  him  with  his  malicious  smile,  and 
stretched  one  round  leg  the  length  of  the  window  seat. 

"Seen  your  hostess  yet,  Sir  Joseph  ?" 

"No,  Mr.  Scott." 

"You're  getting  quite  a  familiar  of  the  Panther. — 
Booked  your  seat  for  the  first  English  gambol  ?" 

"Sir,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  "I  do  not  follow  you." 


256  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"Dear  me  —  not  going  to  Covent  Garden  to  see  our 
Fulvia  tempt  St.  John  the  Baptist?" 

Sir  Joseph  started  convulsively. 

"No,  sir.-  Tempt  St.  John  the  Baptist!  Tut,  tut 
—  I  shall  be  present  at  no  such  blasphemous  impropriety. 
You  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Scott,  that  His  Majesty's  censor 
— "  the  Member  of  Parliament  was  warming  to  the  dis- 
covery of  an  ignored  enormity  —  "this  is  a  matter  for 
investigation.  I  shall  put  a  question  in  the  House " 

But  ruthlessly  the  critic  interrupted : 

"Do  —  Sir  Joseph,  do!  But  you  ought  to  go  and  see 
it,  just  to  prime  yourself  first,  you  know." 

"Sir "  began  Sir  Joseph  again.  Then  he  suddenly 

altered  his  manner.  He  remembered  that  Mr.  Scott, 
after  all,  had  been  more  useful  to  "the  Family"  in  their 
present  dilemma  than  any  one  else.  He  remembered 
the  dark  purpose  that  had  brought  him  once  more  into 
these  purlieus,  in  defiance  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 
Would  not  Mr.  Scott  (however  much  Sir  Joseph  might 
disapprove  of  his  trade)  be  as  good,  if  not  better  counsel 
than  the  weak  and  faithless  Hamilton? 

"Mr.  Scott,"  said  the  baronet  confidentially,  "although 
in  your  humorous  manner  it  pleases  you  to  jest  at  my 
appearance  here  to-day,  I  feel  convinced  that  you  do  not 
really  misunderstand  my  motive.  I  —  I  think  I  men- 
tioned upon  our  first  meeting  that,  if  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
approach  our  —  the  source  of  the  mischief  herself,  to 
approach  her  personally  upon  the  painful  matter,  I  would 
do  so." 

The  critic,  with  mouth  and  eyes  growing  ever  rounder, 
was  hanging  upon  the  speaker's  words.  He  looked,  as 


PANTHER'S     CUB  257 

he  felt  for  the  moment,  actually  thrilled  beyond  amuse- 
ment. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  ejaculated,  "I  admire  you,  I 
admire  you ! " 

Then  he  proceeded  airly: 

"When  you  say  the  source  of  the  mischief,  you  refer, 
I  take  it,  to  the  mother  of  the  source  ?     To  Panther  — 
not  Panther's  Cub?" 

"You  apprehend  my  meaning,"  said  the  hero,  growing, 
however,  a  little  thoughtful. 

"Splendid!"  cried  the  other.  "Why  you  dear,  good 
people  have  allowed  it  to  go  on  so  long  beats  me." 

Sir  Joseph  turned  his  stare  upon  the  smirking  face. 

"Surely,"  the  critic  proceeded,  after  moistening  the 
end  of  his  'Robecq'  and  surveying  it  with  his  head  on 
one  side,  "I  gave  you  the  hint,  you  and  Verie,  last  time 
you  were  here.  The  Panther  will  never  let  her  cub  pick 
up  her  own  chosen  morsel,  I  said,  did  I  not  ?  The  merest 

whisper,   dropped    in   her   ear   and Here  Scott 

sucked  at  his  cigar  and  puffed  expressively,  as  if  he  were 
blowing  Desmond's  romance  into  space. 

Sir  Joseph,  who  had  been  following  the  words  with  a  mute 
and  anxious  movement  of  his  own  lips,  threw  back  his  head 
and  frowned;  his  thumbs  sought  the  lapels  of  his  coat. 

"I  shall  represent  to  her,  Mr.  Scott,  I  shall  represent 
to  her  as  a  mother,  the  danger  of  her  daughter's  position, 
the  —  "  his  eye  grew  furtive,  "the  anomalous  character  — 
I  think  I  should  be  justified  in  saying  the  anomalous  char- 
acter —  of  Lord  Desmond's  attachment." 

"Do!"  cried  the  other,  closing  his  eyes  and  leaning  his 
cropped  gray  head  against  the  casement.  "Do,"  he 


258  PANTHER'S    CUB 

went  on,  sitting  up  again  and  waving  his  cigar.  "Tell 
her  that  Lord  Desmond's  anomalous  attachment  —  cap- 
ital word,  that,  Sir  Joseph,  is  for  her  daughter.  Tell  her 
that.  Tell  her  now!  I'll  manage  you  shall  get  a  word 
in  private.  —  Oh,  in  a  good  cause  I  promised  I'd  stand 
by  you,  didn't  I?" 

Scott  slipped  off  the  window-seat  as  he  spoke,  and 
swayed  from  one  foot  to  another,  waggishly  surveying 
the  figure  on  the  hearthrug. 

"By  George,"  he  declared  again,  "you're  a  brave  man!" 

He  slipped  his  arm  through  Sir  Joseph's,  and  propelled 
him  toward  the  door.  The  latter,  snorting,  withdrew 
from  the  clasp  with  some  irritation. 

"Really,  Mr.  Scott,"  he  said  testily,  "you  —  you  flurry 
me,  you " 

"Come  now,  you're  not  going  to  funk!"  ejaculated  his 
companion. 

"Funk,  sir ?" 

"Come  along,  then.     No  time  like  the  present." 

Again  he  pressed  the  disturbed  gentleman's  elbow. 

"You  know,"  he  tittered,  as  thus  affectionately  conjoined 
they  moved  toward  the  door,  "you  know,  Sir  Joseph,  you 
quite  realize  that  the  Panther's  not  the  smallest  notion 
of  the  truth;  believes  herself  the  unique  attraction."  The 
devoted  brother-in-law  turned  a  scared  countenance. 
"That's  your  chance,  you  see;  that's  your  safeguard; 
that's  your  anchor  of  salvation." 

Thus  the  critic  consoled,  and  laughed  again  and  again. 
Eager  in  his  work  of  benevolence,  he  allowed  the  baronet 
no  time  for  dangerous  reflection;  but,  depositing  him  in 
the  empty  reception  room,  hurried  to  find  his  hostess. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  259 

He  found  her  at  the  head  of  the  steps,  bidding  farewell 
to  her  visitors,  and  promptly  took  an  opportunity  to 
draw  her  on  one  side. 

"Where  is  Lord  Desmond?"  she  said,  forestalling  his 
speech,  as  she  vaguely  allowed  herself  to  be  isolated  under 
the  shade  of  the  colonnade.  Her  eyes  roamed;  failing  to 
find  him  whom  she  was  seeking,  on  the  lawn,  she  shot  a 
piercing  glance  into  the  shadowed  space  of  the  reception 
room. 

Here  one  figure  alone  held  the  stage;  a  figure  in  pom- 
pous frock  coat  and  protruding  white  waistcoat,  with 
empurpled,  ox-like  countenance,  a  stiff  right  arm  bearing, 
like  some  staff  of  office,  a  large,  gray  top-hat. 

She  turned  impatiently  away. 

"Dear  lady,  do  listen!"  repeated  Scott,  politely  urgent 
for  the  third  time. 

Thus  adjured,  she  bestowed  a  look  upon  him,  marking 
without  interest  the  quiver  of  suppressed  excitement  on 
his  face. 

"What  is  it?  —  I  am  going  into  the  garden." 

"Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  wants  a  few  words  with 
you  —  in  private." 

He  indicated  the  rigid  frame  within,  by  a  slight  gesture 
of  the  thumb.  Catching  the  movement,  Sir  Joseph 
turned  his  head  aside  and  coughed. 

"  With  me  ?"  ejaculated  La  Marmora,  incredulously. 
"That  — ?  in  private?" 

"That  —  in  private,"  answered  the  delighted  Scott. 
Then  whisperingly :  "That  ...  is  Lord  Desmond's 
brother-in-law,  you  know." 

"Ah,"  said  the  singer.     It  was  quite  a  soft  exclamation; 


260  PANTHER'S     CUB 

but  again  her  glance  had  swept  into  the  room,  and  Scott's 
chuckle  suddenly  died  away.  Once  more  it  was  becoming 
too  interesting  for  mere  amusement. 

But  the  lady  disappointingly  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"Well,  what's  that  to  me?"  she  scoffed  and  wheeled 
toward  the  garden. 

Sir  Joseph  was  wound  up  to  his  deed  of  daring.  He 
took  two  heavy  steps  forward  to  arrest  her;  Scott  fore- 
stalled him. 

"It  is  determined  to  speak  to  you,"  he  urged;  "you 
may  as  well  let  it.  —  My  dear  creature,  you'll  be  very 
much  amused." 

"Shall  I?"  said  La  Marmora.  A  second  "the  dear 
creature's"  dangerous  eyes  glinted  on  the  critic.  Then, 
with  another  shrug  of  her  shoulders  she  wheeled  round 
upon  her  pertinacious  guest. 

Sir  Joseph  was  rasping  his  throat. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  in  words  he  had  been  laboriously 
rehearsing,  "I  must  request  your  attention  for  a  fe\r 
minutes  on  a  matter  of  vital  importance." 

The  Member  of  Parliament  paused  and  coughed. 
Beyond  the  yellow  figure,  his  eyes  sought,  not  without 
pride,  the  countenance  of  his  advisor.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  dignity  and  firmness?"  they  seemed  to 
question.  But  Scott,  hurrying,  almost  trotting  away 
from  them,  merely  sent  him  a  single  backward  look. 
His  countenance  was  like  that  of  some  goblin ;  if  anything 
so  pink  and  inflated  could  bear  such  a  resemblance.  His 
startling  chuckle  seemed  to  hover  behind  him  in  the 
air. 

Unaccountably    disconcerted,    Sir    Joseph's    attention 


PANTHER'S     CUB  261 

returned  to  his  hostess;  and  here  he  met  with  agreeable 
surprise.  The  lady  was  all  suavity. 

"I  wonder  what  you  have  to  say  to  me!"  she  was 
dulcetlr  remarking.  "Shall  we  not  sit  down?  It  is 
cool  and  quiet  here,  and  we  seem  to  be  quite  alone." 

With  her  long,  gliding  step,  she  began  to  move  with 
him  —  to  lead  him  —  toward  the  classic  couch.  She 
subsided,  a  wonderful,  yellow-clad  sorceress,  upon  the 
white  bear  skin,  and,  tapping  the  long  white  fur:  "Won't 
you  sit  down,  Sir  Joseph?"  she  repeated  engagingly. 

He  looked  at  her,  repudiating  almost  in  terror. 

"Thank  you,  Madame,  I  —  I  prefer  to  stand." 

Her  eyes  ran  him  up  and  down.  Scott  had  been  right; 
she  was  beginning  to  be  amused. 

"  Do  sit  —  one  can  talk  so  much  more  comfortably. 
Here  beside  me." 

It  was  impossible,  without  gross  incivility,  to  insist 
longer  on  his  posture  of  virtuous  uprightness:  yet,  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  already  yielding  to  the  snare  as  he  gingerly 
placed  himself  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  couch.  He 
balanced  his  gray  hat  on  his  knees  and  stared  straight 
before  him,  voicelessly  forming  his  next  speech  with 
agitated  lips. 

"I  wonder  what  you  can  have  to  say  to  me  ?"  she  trilled 
again. 

He  cast  a  rolling,  startled  eye  upon  her;  met  the  mockery 
of  a  glance  that  did  not  in  the  least  correspond  with  the 
exaggerated  sweetness  of  the  tone;  and  his  honest,  middle- 
class  manhood  suddenly  revolted. 

"It  must  have  struck  you,  Madame,"  he  said  in  a  loud, 
har.sk  voice,  "when  I  first  presented  myself  here  —  last 


PANTHER'S    CUB 

week  —  that  there  was  something  —  something  about  me, 
different  from  the  rest  of  your  guests." 

She  clasped  her  hands: 

"Very  different.     Oh,  very,  very  different!" 

From  those  accents,  she  might  have  been  openly, 
shamelessly  making  love  to  him;  but  between  her  long,  half- 
closed  lids,  her  eyes  gleamed,  jeering,  with  a  glint  of  anger. 

A  man  may  be  encased  in  a  whole  armour  of  pretentious 
stupidity,  and  yet  through  his  vanity  retain  a  sensitive 
perception.  Sir  Joseph  gathered  a  distinct  notion  that 
he  was  being  "made  game  of."  The  colour  of  wrath 
rose  to  his  brow;  he  resumed  with  all  the  strength  of  anger: 

"You  must  have  realized,  then,  that  I  am  not  a  person 
to  frequent  these  artistic,  these  —  bohemian  purlieus, 
without  some  urgent  motive." 

"My  dear  Sir  Joseph,"  cried  she  with  a  tinkling  laugh, 
"  but  all  my  friends  come  here,  with  an  —  an  urgent 
motive." 

Nonplussed,  he  hemmed  an  interrogative  "Er  —  er?" 
turning  his  countenance,  judicially  puckered,  full  upon  her. 

"To  see  me!"  she  explained,  and  folded  her  hands 
upon  her  knees,  opening  her  eyes  unexpectedly  and  then 
blinking. 

"Madame,  this  is  trifling,"  exclaimed  the  M.  P.,  irritated 
beyond  all  the  pompous  dignity  of  the  lines  he  had  laid 
out  for  himself.  "I  decline  to  trifle."  Then,  breathing 
heavily,  "I  am  Lord  Desmond  Brooke's  brother-in-law," 
he  announced. 

It  was  Sir  Joseph's  misfortune,  not  his  fault,  that  his 
physiognomy  recalled  that  of  the  ox.  Now  it  was  as  if 
he  had  lowered  his  horns  for  hostilities.  His  companion 


PANTHER'S     CUB  263 

knew  herself  attacked,  and  on  the  instant,  her  native 
vulgarity  sprang  forth,  through  all  the  fine-lady  veneer. 

"How  charming  of  you  .  .  .  to  be  that!"  she 
cried  tauntingly. 

He  ignored  the  gibe  and  heavily  pranced  on  to  his 
assault. 

"I  am  in  very  great  anxiety  —  the  family  of  Lord 
Desmond  are  all  in  very  great,  very  painful  anxiety  about 
him." 

"  How  sad  for  you ! " 

"My  brother-in-law's  constant  visits  here,  his  infatua- 
tion, Madame " 

Sir  Joseph  paused;  and  the  woman  was  lying  back, 
surveying  him  through  her  narrowed  eyelids  with  an  air 
of  insolence  quite  indescribable.  He  was  glad  to  have 
a  weapon  to  hurt  her  withal. 

"My  brother-in-law's  infatuation,  for  your  daughter 
"  he  declared. 

There  was  triumph  in  his  tone;  but  his  heart  thumped 
apprehensively.  He  broke  off,  unable  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence. 

The  languid  figure  beside  him  had  scarcely  stirred; 
merely  turned  her  head,  ever  so  little,  and  opened  her 
eyes  once  more  full  upon  the  speaker.  Sir  Joseph  dropped 
his  hat;  picked  it  up;  then  rose  and  stood  before  her.  His 
face  was  almost  apoplectic. 

La  Marmora  slowly  took  three  long  pins  from  her 
monstrous  headgear,  removed  it  from  her  head,  and, 
placing  it  on  the  couch  beside  her,  ran  both  hands  upward 
through  her  hair.  Then  she  lifted  her  face,  and  spoke 
with  extraordinary  quietness: 


264  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"Would  you  mind  repeating  that  last  remark  of  yours  ?" 

It  was  perhaps  the  consciousness  that  he  was  really 
terrified  that  lent  such  desperate  boldness  to  Sir  Joseph's 
answer : 

"My  unfortunate  brother-in-law's  infatuation  for  your 
daughter  —  I  repeat  my  remark,  Madame :  for  your  — 
daughter." 

She  broke  into  laughter;  the  laughter  of  a  blind  fury. 

"This  is  killing  —  go  on!  —  Lord  Desmond  comes 
here  for  my  daughter  ?  Did  you  find  that  out  by  yourself  ? 
—  How  clever  you  are !  —  For  my  daughter  .  .  . 
And  then?" 

"I  admit  that,  at  first,  the  family  believed,  that  you 
yourself  were  the  attraction." 

"Indeed  ?  —    What  an  honour ! " 

"I  cannot  conceal  that  the  fact  of  finding  out  that  his 
affections  are  fixed  upon  your  daughter  —  so  young  a 
girl,  but  unfortunately,  already  notorious  —  has  added 
considerably  to  the  danger  of  the  situation  in  the  eyes  of 
the  family,  in  my  own  —  and  also  to  its  painfulness." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  suddenness  that  drove 
him  hastily  backward. 

"And  how  did  you  find  that  out?—  Speak!  How 
did  you  make  that  precious  discovery  ?  —  Speak,  you 
old  fool!" 

Shocked  to  bewilderment  Sir  Joseph  could  only  echo 
the  opprobrious  term: 

"Old  fool-    -  !" 

She  flung  herself  back  upon  the  sofa,  laughing  once 
again.  The  ugly  insolence  of  the  sound  helped  him  to 
recover  his  valour. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  265 

"It  is  the  talk  of  your  own  friends,  Madame." 

"Ha!"  she  mocked,  and  catching  up  her  hat  on  her 
knee,  began  to  prod  the  pin  among  the  feathers.  The 
action  was  meaningless  in  itself,  but  she  gave  to  it  an 
intention  of  insult:  "Begone,  old  dotard,"  it  seemed  to 
say,  "even  this  is  no  more  amusing." 

For  the  first  time  that  day,  Sir  Joseph  smiled. 

"And  my  brother-in-law,  Lord  Desmond's  own  admis- 
sion   " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  sharp,  short  scream: 

"It's  a  lie!  -      It's  a  lie,  I  say." 

Once  more  the  man  retreated.  Rightly  indeed  was  this 
outrageous  creature  nicknamed  Panther. 

"It's  a  lie!"  she  repeated,  and  drove  the  pin  into  the 
crown  of  her  hat  as  if  she  had  been  stabbing  him. 

A  second  he  meditated  judicious  retirement;  but,  strug- 
gling violently  for  composure,  she  arrested  him: 

"No,  no.     You  mustn't  go." 

She  tossed  hat  and  pins  from  her.  Two  of  the  latter 
rolled  on  the  floor;  Sir  Joseph  glanced  at  them  sideways. 

"My  goodness!"  she  exclaimed,  trying  for  her  society 
laugh,  "how  droll  you  have  been! —  You  don't  even 
know  Fifi.  Why,  she's  a  little  schoolgirl!  Oh,  my 
poor  Sir  Joseph,  you  have  been  misled.  Lord  Desmond's 
been  pulling  your  leg  —  isn't  that  what  you  call  it  ?  " 

"Pulling  my  leg!"  His  voice  rose,  bearing  down  her 
affected  mirth;  "if  you  will  allow  me  to  speak,  Madame, 
I  shall  convince  you  that  I  can,  unfortunately,  labour  under 
no  such  misapprehension.  —  Lord  Desmond  Brooke's 
own  words " 

With  a  hand  on  either  side  of  the  couch  she  half  lifted 


266  PANTHER'S    CUB 

her  lithe  body  —  wide-open  eyes,  parted  lips,  dilated 
nostrils,  every  quivering  line  of  her  countenance,  every 
tense  muscle,  one  concentrated  interrogation. 

"His  own  words "  she  breathed. 

The  M.  P.  was  all  at  once  smugly  content.  He  had 
imposed  himself,  he  had  produced  the  desired  impression. 

"I  taxed  him  with  it  myself,"  he  proceeded.  "I 
regret  to  say  he  showed  himself  impervious  to  all  repre- 
sentations —  brazen !  But  he  did  not  attempt  to  disguise 
his  feelings." 

She  became,  if  that  were  possible,  more  fixed  upon  him; 
and  save  for  that  tense  quiver  running  through  her,  more 
deadly  still.  Well  might  he  have  remembered  then  her 
nickname.  It  was  the  strong  stillness  of  the  feline  crouch- 
ing for  the  spring. 

"He  admitted  it — his  love?"  Her  voice  was  a 
whisper. 

"Madame,"  exploded  Sir  Joseph,  "he  flourished  it  in 
my  face!  He  talked,  in  what  I  can  only  define  as  exag- 
gerated and  —  ah  —  gross  language,  of  the  effect  your 
daughter  produces  upon  him.  —  Galvanizing  his  corpse, 
he  called  it." 

La  Marmora  relaxed  the  grip  of  her  hands  and  allowed 
herself  to  subside  upon  the  couch.  She  sat  a  moment 
or  two,  rather  huddled,  with  haggard  eye  and  dropping 
jaw,  staring:  she  looked,  suddenly,  an  old  woman.  Then 
fury  seized  her  like  a  hurricane. 

"Ah!"  she  screamed,  "this  is  good,  this  is  famous! 
Ah,  par  exemple!"  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  writhed 
in  convulsive  laughter.  "Ah,  par  exemple!  Galvanizing 
...  his  corpse!" 


PANTHER'S     CUB  267 

He  averted  his  eyes  from  a  spectacle  so  indecent  and 
alarming;  only  to  be  fascinated  again,  and  gaze  on. 

"Oh,  your  funny  face!     Ah,  ah,  ah!" 

And  next,  the  hideous  laughter  fell  from  her.  Pure 
passion  of  wrath  and  jealousy  possessed  her,  lifting  her 
out  of  vulgarity,  beyond  hysteric  weakness,  into  tragedy. 

"  So,  that,  that's  what  he  came  here  for !  To  be  ... 
galvanized  by  Fifi  ...  by  Fifi!  Ah,  malheureuse 
que  je  suis!  'Tis  my  own  child  that  robs  me." 

But  it  was  not  in  Fulvia  la  Marmora  to  keep  the  dignity 
of  an  emotion  beyond  its  first  moment  of  realization. 
The  mud  of  the  unknown  Montmartre  gutter  began  to 
foam  from  her  lips. 

"Ah,  satanee  fille,  va!  Ah,  petit  crapaud,  va!  His 
corpse  .  .  .  C'est  bon!  On  va  te  faire  sauter,  cada- 
vre  .  .  .  /" 

"Merciful  heavens!"  murmured  the  M.  P.,  dabbing  his 
beaded  brow. 

"Where  is  Lord  Desmond?"  cried  she,  rising  and 
advancing  menacingly.  "Where  is  Lord  Desmond?" 

With  the  sheer  terror  provoked  by  her  aspect,  he 
answered  vindictively: 

"With  your  daughter,  probably." 

A  piercing  scream  greeted  his  words. 

"Ah,  bien!  Bravo,  bravo,  bravissimo! —  Where's 
Robecq  then  ?  Robecq!  .  .  .  Robecq!" 

Each  call  came  with  a  louder  shriek.  She  turned  to 
the  electric  bell  and  sent  its  shrill  summons  unintermit- 
tently  forth. 

"Good  God!"  said  Sir  Joseph;  "it  is  a  mad  woman!" 

He  turned  to  fly,  and  almost  knocked  against  Scott 


268  PANTHER'S     CUB 

who  was  hurrying  into  the  room,  his  face  pinker  than 
usual  with  excitement,  his  mouth  pursed  into  an  expression 
of  sympathetic  concern  that  was  contradicted  by  the 
dancing  malice  in  the  little  eyes. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  was  crying,  fat  hands 
flapping  as  he  trotted. 

"Matter!"  echoed  Sir  Joseph,  "let  me  get  out  of  this!" 

A  couple  of  indignant  parlour-maids  now  jostled  each 
other  at  the  entrance.  Panting,  their  mistress  turned  upon 
them: 

"The  Baron!  —    Instantly!"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"This  is  what  comes  of  rousing  the  Panther,"  whispered 
Scott  to  the  distraught  baronet,  and  for  the  life  of  him  was 
unable  to  suppress  a  giggle.  Then  moving  forward,  he 
came  within  range  of  La  Marmora's  glance. 

Instantly  she  roused  herself  from  the  fit  of  dark  abstrac- 
tion that  had  succeeded  her  frenzy,  and  the  furies  were 
loose  in  her  again. 

"Ah,  Scott,"  she  cried,  jeering,  while  her  eyes  stabbed 
him.  "I  hear  you  knew  about  this.  It's  excruciatingly 
funny!  .  .  .  A  se  tordre!"  She  broke  off,  her  fierce 
eye  caught  Sir  Joseph  at  the  very  door.  "No,  no,  you  don't, 
mon  vieux.  You  don't, old  man!  You  wait  and  listen !" 

The  menace  of  gesture,  voice  and  eye  was  not  to  be 
withstood.  Sir  Joseph  halted  miserably,  to  start  as  her 
scream  rang  out  again. 

"Robecq!" 

Running  steps  were  now  heard  under  the  colonnade. 

"Coming,  my  dear  friend!  coming!"  soothed  the 
impresario's  accents  from  afar. 

"Robecq     .     .     .!" 


PANTHER'S     CUB  269 

In  another  instant  he  was  upon  them,  talking  as  he  came : 

"My  dear  good  creature  .  .  .  for  mercy's  sake 
.  .  .!  Oh,  tut,  tut!  What  have  you  been  doing  to 
her? —  Your  throat,  my  dear,  your  throat!" 

"Pshaw!"  she  snarled.     "Where  is  Fifi?" 

"Fifi? —  Oh,  Fifi's  quite  safe.  Compose  yourself, 
my  dear,  I  beg  of  you!" 

"  Quite  safe !     With  whom  ? ' ' 

She  was  gasping,  shuddering,  as  she  sat.  Robecq 
looked  at  her  a  second  without  replying;  then  he  flung  a 
single  glance  of  deadly  reproach  at  Scott  and  Sir  Joseph. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  abandon  his  post !  But  there 
had  been  so  many  parting  guests  to  speed  .  .  . 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"Fifi?  "he  drawled  — "Fifi's  about  with  .  .  .  well 
I  don't  think  I  really  know.  Now,  listen  to  me,  Fulvia." 

"She's  with  Lord  Desmond.  Ah,  you  know  —  you 
knew  it  too."  The  hysterical  laughter  that  shook  her 
was  broken  by  a  kind  of  dry  sob.  "You're  a  pretty 
wooer,  aren't  you?  You  knew  it  all  the  time." 

Convicted,  he  stood  without  a  word.  She  flung  out 
an  arm  again: 

"  Look  here,  you,  you  over  there  —  you  Smith.     .     .     ." 

"Smith!"  murmured  Sir  Joseph.  This  was  the  last 
straw.  He  tottered  backward  toward  the  portiere. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  my  son-in-law?"  she  went  on. 
"There  he  stands." 

She  rose  with  her  histrionic  gesture  as  she  spoke;  but 
her  knees  shook  under  her,  and  she  fell  heavily  back  upon 
the  couch. 

"Go — go!"  cried  Robecq  fiercely. 


270  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"Yes,  he  can  go,"  cried  the  singer. 

She  was  livid  under  her  paint.  Her  head  rolled  rest- 
lessly against  the  cushions.  Through  her  widely  distended 
nostrils  and  drawn-back  lips  breathing  seemed  really 
difficult.  Yet,  in  broken,  jerked  phrases,  she  called  after 
the  disappearing  figure: 

"Yes,  you  can  go  now,  and  tell  Lord  Desmond's  family!" 

Robecq  had  come  over  to  her,  and  taken  her  hand. 

"Yes  —  yes,"  he  agreed.  And  over  his  shoulder  to 
Scott:  "Will  you  call  her  maid  ?" 

Scott  expressed  sympathy  and  understanding,  with 
eyebrows,  shoulders  and  Orientally  uplifted  palms.  He 
was  glad  enough  of  the  opportunity  to  escape  also. 

"We  must  put  a  stop  to  this,  Robecq,"  La  Marmora 
was  panting. 

"Yes  —  yes."     He  still  held  her  fingers  in  his  fat  grasp. 

"We'll  have  the  engagement  announced  to-morrow. 
To-morrow." 

"Certainly,  certainly! —    To-morrow,  by  all  means!" 

"Robecq — "  she  was  beginning  again  excitedly.  All 
at  once  he  dropped  her  hand  and  started  back  from  her, 
finger  on  lip.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  shuffling  foot, 
the  tap  of  a  stick  upon  the  marble  of  the  terrace  without. 
She  stiffened.  The  old  look  of  fear  swept  over  her 
features : 

"Fritz!" 

Like  two  conspirators,  they  looked  at  each  other,  then 
turned  their  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  advancing  steps. 
These  halted.  Black  against  the  sunset,  Fritz's  burly 
figure  stood.  He  gazed  in  upon  them  a  second,  made  a 
bow  and  slowly  passed  on. 


VII 
PANTHER  PREPARES  TO  SPRING 

RARELY  had  Mr.  Scott  spent  so  utterly  enjoyable,  so 
completely  fruitful  a  day. 

He  saw  Sir  Joseph  safely  off  in  the  yellow  Mercedes. 
The  latter  departed  in  a  glorious  consciousness  of  accom- 
plishment and  success,  in  spite  of  the  shock  produced  by 
the  recent  scene.  The  critic,  who  had  refused  the  prof- 
ferred  lift  to  town,  gazed  after  the  swirling  machine  with 
a  grin.  "And  Martia  Marchioness  will  give  him  one  of 
her  most  withering  smiles,"  he  reflected;  "and  for  ever 
after  keep  a  grudge  against  the  busybody,  who  has  pre- 
sumed to  save  her  aristocratic  son." 

Mr.  Scott  prided  himself  on  knowing  human  nature. 

He  turned  and  reentered  the  house.  He  had  received 
no  special  invitation  to  remain;  but  with  the  Panther 
one  need  not  stand  upon  ceremony.  He  was  quite  enough 
of  an  habitue  to  invite  himself  to  dinner  if  he  chose;  and 
to  leave  the  place  without  having  seen  the  end  of  the 
comedy  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Every  one  has  his 
master  passion,  his  hobby.  The  dominant  trait  of 
Philip  Scott's  character  was  a  mischievous  curiosity; 
his  most  absorbing  interest  in  life,  meddling  with  other 
people's  affairs. 

Strolling  back  leisurely  into  the  reception  room,  he 
found  it  deserted.  Only  the  tossed  green  silk  cushions 

271 


272  PANTHER'S     CUB 

on  the  couch,  the  prima  donna's  befeathered  hat,  lying 
where  she  had  flung  it  on  the  marble,  and  a  half-fin- 
ished glass  of  sal-volatile  on  the  little  console,  spoke  of 
the  past  storm  and  the  lady's  pamoisons. 

Mr.  Scott  walked  across  to  the  dais,  stepping  affectedly 
over  the  hat;  settled  himself  on  the  bear  skin,  with  a 
cushion  on  each  side  of  his  ribs,  and  lit  a  cigarette  with 
the  luxurious  remembrance  of  the  absurd  old  German's 
objections  to  smoke. 

A  hidden  clock  chimed.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  — 
it  was  half -past  seven.  La  Marmora's  guests  had  early 
departed  to-day.  The  novelty  was  wearing  off,  no  doubt. 
She  was  hardly  worth  damp  feet  and  bedraggled  skirts. 
He  wondered  if  he  were  the  only  one  left;  if  anybody 
was  likely  to  return  to  the  informal  dinner,  that,  up  to 
this,  had  always  followed  the  garden  party.  At  any 
rate  Robecq  was  certain  to  remain;  and  where  Robecq 
was,  a  man  was  pretty  sure  to  find  good  food  at  a  regular 
hour.  He  trusted  that  this  hour  might  not  be  too  long 
delayed  to-night;  he  was,  in  his  own  phrase,  growing 
uncommonly  peckish. 

The  shadows  were  falling  long  and  dark,  against  the 
golden  evening  sunshine  without.  The  birds  were 
piping  excitably  after  the  rain.  Through  the  archways 
the  vista  of  garden  seemed  extraordinarily  fresh  and  pure- 
coloured.  There  was  a  red  may  tree  in  bloom;  a  pyramid 
of  Pompadour  pink  of  a  tint  hardly  seen  outside  Sevres 
china.  And  beside  it  fell  a  cascade  of  laburnum,  yellow 
as  a  canary  bird. 

"A  perfect  Fragonard  background,"  murmured  the 
critic. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  273 

He  found  a  third  cushion  for  his  head;  and,  comfort- 
ably supported,  gazed  in  pleasure.  He  had  very  artis- 
tic perceptions,  with  especial  leaning  toward  the  rococo 
and  the  delicately  sentimental,  both  in  music  and  painting. 

Two  of  the  soubrettes  who  gave  the  final  stamp  of 
irrespectability  to  Madame  la  Marmora's  extraordinary 
establishment,  entered  upon  him  with  their  impossible 
stage  impertinence. 

With  much  action  of  caps  and  streamers  in  his  direc- 
tion, they  made  a  perfunctory  visitation  of  the  room; 
lit  the  electric  star  in  the  ceiling,  shifted  a  couple  of 
seats,  aimlessly;  captured  the  tumbler  and  withdrew. 
Characteristically,  the  hat  was  left  upon  the  floor. 

Next  with  heavy  step,  Robecq  appeared.  He  came 
slowly  across  the  room;  beheld  Scott  with  a  momentary 
glance  of  doubt,  which  was  succeeded  by  one  of  resig- 
nation; stooping,  he  picked  up  the  neglected  headgear 
and  laid  it  carefully  on  the  console. 

As  he  was  about  to  sit  down,  his  foot  struck  against 
a  hat  pin.  Again  he  bent  and  picked  it  up  to  insert  it 
carefully  among  its  fellows  in  the  monstrous  crown. 
Then  he  sat  down,  at  the  end  of  the  couch,  and  turned 
his  countenance  upon  the  observant  smoker. 

Scott's  smile,  which  had  been  gathering,  grew  so  broad, 
that  he  was  fain  to  remove  his  cigarette. 

"I  trust  she's  calmer,"  he  remarked. 

" Calm !  —  •"  ejaculated   the   impresario.     "Oh,    yes  — 
deadly!     She's  getting  ready  for  another." 

"Another?  You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  Scott, 
endeavouring  to  keep  the  note  of  delight  out  of  his  voice. 

Robecq  looked  at  him  philosophically.     He  knew  his 


274  PANTHER'S    CUB 

man;  knew  that  he  owed  to  him  a  good  deal  of  the  after- 
noon's work.  But  he  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with 
him  —  Scott  was  a  pestilential  necessity. 

"Oh,  it's  a  very  wearing  business,  mine,"  he  con- 
tinued. His  drawl  was  half  plaintive,  half  humorous. 
"Now,  if  she'd  listen  to  me,  she'd  go  straight  to  bed, 
with  nothing  heavier  in  the  way  of  dinner  than  a  little 
consomme,  and  a  filet  of  sole.  A  voice  is  a  very  deli- 
cate organ,  Scott  —  and  hers  is  very  specially  delicate. 
But  as  well  try  and  reason  with  a  — "  he  paused  for  a 
simile. 

"Wild  beast,"  suggested  the  other  pleasantly. 

"Sir,"  said  the  manager,  with  one  of  his  American 
intonations,  "that  simile  begins  to  strike  me  as  worn  out." 

There  followed  a  slight  pause,  broken  only  by  the 
critic's  soft  chuckle  and  the  heavy  sigh  of  the  Baron. 

"So  she's  coming  down  to  dinner,"  proceeded  the  latter. 
"She  expects  — "  again  he  broke  off. 

Scott's  eyebrows  questioned. 

"Oh,  I  believe  so — "  was  the  impresario's  answer, 
given  with  some  testiness.  "It's  a  kettle  of  fish,  it's 
a  confounded  kettle  of  fish.  And  she's  dressing  herself. 
She's  going  to  dress  the  girl." 

"Eh?—  "     Mr.  Scott  leaned  forward. 

"Miss  Fifi's  got  to  come  down  here,  after  dinner.  Cela 
va  sans  dire  she's  not  to  dine.  And  then,  sir,  I  am  to 
find  her  here  —  and  to  propose  to  her!  I've  got  half  an 
hour  to  do  it  in.  And  I've  got  to  make  her  say  yes.  And 
then  Madame  will  come  in  upon  us  from  the  dining  room 
with  Lord  Desmond,  and  the  announcement  will  be 
made.  Sir,  that's  the  programme." 


PANTHER'S     CUB  275 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Scott.  He  stared  for  a 
moment;  the  situation  was  exquisite. 

"My  dear  Scott,"  said  Robecq  in  the  same  long-drawn, 
emphatic  melancholy  of  utterance,  "if  she  has  a  few  more 
of  these  fits  of  rage,  I  don't  give  that  for  Salome."  He 
snapped  his  nail.  "It  will  be  a  vurry  serious  affair  for 
me,  if  she  goes  caput  before  Salome.  And  if  I  don't 
humour  her 

"But  you're  going  to  humour  her,  aren't  you,  Baron  ?" 
cried  Scott. 

"Oh,  my  God!  yes."  A  rueful  smile  spread  over  the 
speaker's  countenance.  "Now,  that's  a  pretty  absurd 
situation  for  me,  isn't  it?  I've  got  to  propose  to  Miss 
Fifi,  to-night  —  and  she's  about  as  easy  to  approach  as 
a  colt  in  a  paddock." 

"It's  supremely  comic!"  exclaimed  the  other.  And 
indeed,  he  had  all  the  air  of  finding  it  so. 

"Comic !" 

"But  how  will  you  set  to  work?"  Scott  shifted  a  little 
nearer  to  his  companion  in  a  flutter  of  inquisitiveness. 

The  manager  fixed  a  lack-lustre  eye  upon  him. 

"I'll  just  —  oh,  I'll  show  her  the  oats,  I'll  show  her  the 
oats!  After  all,  it's  a  woman." 

"You've  got  a  formidable  rival,"  said  the  consoling 
listener,  after  a  musing  pause. 

"That's  so."  Robecq  rose  and  began  to  pace  slowly 
the  small  length  of  the  dais.  "Oh,  dear—  '  he  ran 
his  fingers  through  his  beard.  "You  know  I  want  the 
girl.  Oh,  you  know  very  well  all  about  it,  Scott.  That's 
why  she's  here  at  all.  But  —  good  heavens!  A  man  of 
my  age  has  to  take  his  time  about  these  things.  I've 


276  PANTHER'S     CUB 

got  to  get  her  to  look  upon  me  as  a  friend,  first.  What 
with  chocolates  —  and  the  Persian  kitten  and  —  timely 
interference  about  her  frocks,  I've  been  very  fairly  suc- 
cessful. She  is  beginning  to  like  me " 

"  But  —  enter  Lord  Desmond ! " 

"  Lord  Desmond  ?  "  repeated  the  Baron  calmly.  "  Well, 
I  don't  mind  admitting  that  at  first  I  was  rather  put  out 
over  Lord  Desmond.  But,  latterly,  Scott,  it  was  begin- 
ning to  strike  me  that  I  could  look  upon  him  as  an  ally." 

Scott's  round  eyes  started.  He  drew  his  mouth  together 
for  a  whistle. 

"Upon  my  word,  Baron " 

"Scott,"  said  Robecq,  "it's  plain  you've  never  made 
a  thorough  study  of  women.  I'd  have  got  Miss  Fifi, 
on  the  rebound,  don't  you  see  ?  As  sure  as  fate.  Lord 
Desmond  ?  What  kind  of  intentions  has  a  man  like  that 
—  in  a  house  like  this  ?  My  friend,"  continued  the  im- 
presario solemnly,  "the  hour  was  sure  to  strike  when  she 
would  have  been  pretty  rudely  awakened  from  love's 
young  dream  —  and  that  was  my  hour!" 

"  Love's  young  dream ! "  sneered  the  man  in  the  cushions. 
"And  do  you  think  Miss  Fifi  such  an  innocent?" 

Robecq  turned  in  his  bear  walk  and  fixed  his  small, 
shrewd  orbs  steadily  upon  Scott.  A  second  or  two  they 
stared  at  each  other;  then  Mr.  Scott  shifted  his  glance 
uneasily  aside. 

"I  know  Miss  Fifi  to  be  perfectly  innocent,"  said 
Robecq,  with  more  than  his  usual  deliberation.  "Other- 
wise, Mr.  Scott,  I  should  not  intend  to  make  her  Madame 
de  Robecq." 

Philip  Scott  would  have  been  glad  to  show  some  gen- 


PANTHER'S     CUB  277 

uine  amusement  once  more.  Somehow  it  could  not  be 
achieved.  Something  in  the  Israelite's  look  and  tone 
made  him  feel  mean,  and  discovered  as  mean.  It  was  a 
rare  sensation  and  a  fugitive.  A  man  is  generally  so  well 
justified  in  thinking  the  worst  of  every  one!  Just  now 
he  was  fain  to  fall  back  upon  his  sneer. 

"And  so  now  you've  got  to  capture  your  nymph  right 
off  —  play  the  good  old  Pan?  Do  all  your  wooing  in 
one  night,  like  Romeo?" 

"Oh,  I'll  worry  through  all  right!"  said  the  impresario, 
without  vouchsafing  a  smile. 

He  sat  down  again  as  he  said  these  words;  his  fingers 
began  to  play  in  his  beard  —  a  sure  sign  with  him  of  deep 
reflection. 

"I've  got  to  put  Salome  first,"  he  said  into  space,  as 
if  arguing  with  himself.  "I  can't  afford  a  fee-asco. 
Better  cancel  it  even  than  risk  a  fee-asco.  There's  one 
good  thing,  Fritz  is  back  in  his  cottage  —  safe  for  the 
night,  anyhow!" 

Robecq  heaved  one  of  his  profound  sighs;  his  was, 
indeed,  a  complicated  responsibility. 

"Fritz?"  echoed  Scott,  pricking  his  ears.  He  whisked 
buoyantly  round  toward  his  companion.  "Now,  if 
you'll  explain  the  mystery  of  Fritz,  I'll  be  deeply  obliged. 
What's  he  got  to  say  to  this  ? " 

"Oh,  my  dear  Scott,"  retorted  the  other,  wearily. 
"  Fulvia  depends  on  him  —  ergo,  I  depend  on  him. 
We've  got  to  keep  him  in  good  humour." 

"Well  —  but  Miss  Fifi?  Where  does  he  come  in 
there?" 

"He's  chosen  to  come  in  there—  "  said  the  manager, 


278  PANTHER'S     CUB 

with  his  rare  accent  of  irritation.  "And  I  regret  to  say, 
for  I  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  Fritz,"  he  added,  falling 
back  into  his  former  rueful  humorousness,  "he  hasn't 
a  vurry  high  opinion  of  me! " 

"And  the  Panther's  afraid  of  him?"  probed  Scott. 
"Ah,  he's  got  some  kind  of  hold.  Now  —  haven't  you 
got  a  suspicion?" 

The  critic's  plump  cheeks  quivered  with  the  eagerness 
of  his  master  passion;  but  Robecq  rose  decisively.  He 
had  quite  sufficiently  pandered  to  the  necessary  Scott. 

"I'm  a  busy  man,"  he  said,  with  as  much  curtness  as 
his  natural  way  of  speech  would  allow.  "I  don't  waste 
my  time  in  surmises.  I  am  content  to  take  facts  as  they 
are,  Mr.  Scott,  and  to  use  them  to  the  best  of  my 
ability." 

Scott  pursed  his  lips. 

"Don't  be  so  shirty,  old  man,"  he  said  airily.  The 
next  moment  he  rose  in  his  turn  with  a  bland  ejaculation ; 
his  hostess  was  sweeping  into  the  room. 

The  calm  after  the  storm  had  evident  possession  of  her; 
but  it  was  merely  a  lull,  as  Robecq  had  described  —  the 
deadly  pause. 

She  had  chosen  to  robe  herself  with  a  barbaric  splen- 
dour. A  scarlet  sheath,  in  the  extreme  of  the  current 
fashion  enclosed  the  long  splendour  of  her  limbs.  Its 
exiguous  draperies  were  clasped  over  her  naked  shoulder 
and  at  her  breast  with  enamelled  bosses,  gleaming  with 
rough  stones  —  greens  and  purples  and  reds.  The  emer- 
alds were  slung  round  her  neck  and  blazed  in  her  ears. 
Her  copper-red  hair,  twisted  with  more  simplicity  and 
artistic  negligence  than  usual,  just  at  the  Greek  angle  in 


PANTHER'S     CUB  279 

a  careless  knot,  was  apparently  only  held  in  place  by  a 


As  she  stood  before  the  glass  her  last  gesture  had  been 
to  loosen,  with  impatient  hand,  the  waves  on  each  side 
of  the  temples,  so  as  to  cast  more  shadows  over  the  hag- 
gard eyes.  The  result  had  been  to  impart  to  her  whole 
countenance,  set  that  night  in  a  mask  of  passion  and 
decision,  something  brooding,  savage  and  tragic,  which 
redeemed  it  from  the  haunting  vulgarity  which  was  ever 
its  bane. 

Here  was  the  natural  woman  in  an  elemental  throe  — 
and  she  was  splendid. 

The  bland  exclamation  with  which  the  critic  had 
greeted  the  rustle  of  her  satin  on  the  marble,  changed 
to  an  indrawn  breath  of  utter  admiration. 

"If  she  can  look  like  this  for  you,  your  Salome " 

he  flung  a  delighted  whisper  to  the  impresario  and  com- 
pleted his  phrase  by  an  elegant  gesture;  for  the  moment 
the  artistic  sense  had  risen  uppermost  within  him. 

Robecq  shook  his  head  ever  so  slightly.  For  him,  his 
investment  had  suddenly  assumed  that  exaggerated  height 
which  presages  a  fall.  It  was  as  the  blazing  of  a  fire- 
work. Your  financial  genius  well  knows  such  omens! 

The  woman  came  down  upon  them,  and  her  long,  nar- 
row, scarlet  train  swung  from  side  to  side  on  the  floor- 
ing with  each  slow,  free  step.  Pursuing  the  simile  which 
the  Baron  had  deemed  worn  out,  Scott  compared  it  in 
his  mind  to  the  lashing  of  the  Panther's  tail. 

Passing  by  Robecq  as  if  he  did  not  exist,  she  flung 
upon  her  uninvited  guest  a  dark  look  that  pondered  a 
second  and  then  seemed  to  toss  him  aside. 


280  PANTHER'S     CUB 

He  made  way  for  her,  and  she  took  the  couch  with 
an  unconscious  magnificence.  Her  glance  fell  on  the 
hat. 

"Eh  bien!"  she  said  in  harsh,  brief  tones.  "What  is 
that?" 

Robecq  hastened  to  the  bell. 

"What  is  that?"  repeated  the  lady,  as  the  parlour- 
maid entered :  she  was  pointing. 

The  girl  had  insolence  quite  ready;  but  she  met  her 
mistress's  eyes,  and  it  dropped  cravenly.  Without  a 
flounce  or  a  toss,  she  slunk  away  again,  carrying  off  the 
offending  object. 

Silence  was  on  the  three;  Robecq  too  wise  to  speak; 
Scott  nonplussed,  yet  thrilled;  and  the  singer  absorbed. 
She  sat  with  her  eyes  straight  before  her,  gazing  into  her 
own  thoughts,  as  the  witch  may  gaze  into  the  seething 
cauldron. 

All  at  once  she  spoke  again.  Her  lips  scarcely  mov- 
ing —  her  eyes  still  fixed. 

"  What  hour  is  it  ?  " 

"  Just  about  eight,"  answered  both  men  eagerly. 

They  knew  what  she  was  waiting  for;  and  in  the  heavy 
pause  that  succeeded,  the  critic's  pulses  positively  bounded 
—  he  was  nothing  if  not  impressionable  —  when  the  faint 
throb  of  a  motor  began  to  grow  into  the  silence.  His 
eyes,  hanging  upon  the  singer's  face,  saw  the  flash  kindle 
into  that  fixed,  unnatural  gaze. 

His  own  words,  of  mocking  description,  recurred  to  his 
mind:  "Phosphorescent  —  positively  phosphorescent!" 

Robecq  suddenly  got  up  and  moved  toward  the  colon- 
nade as  if  the  sense  of  suspense  and  impending  event 


PANTHER'S     CUB  281 

was  beyond  his  endurance.  But  La  Marmora  sat  on  like 
a  statue ;  and  it  was  only  when  Lord  Desmond  was  actually 
in  the  room  that  she  moved  at  all. 

He  came  in  in  his  lounging,  weary  way,  looking 
singularly  distinguished  in  the  evening  black  and 
white  beside  the  two  other  men  in  their  morning 
suits. 

She  rose,  slow,  long,  superb,  and  stood  awaiting  the 
moment  when  his  eyes  should  behold  her. 

It  was  for  this  moment  that  she  had  robed  herself  in 
gorgeous  scarlet,  had  decked  herself  with  jewels.  Silent, 
arrogant,  she  challenged  for  the  last  time;  and  she  knew 
herself  matchless  in  her  own  peculiar  resplendence,  yet 
if  he  withstood  now  this  voiceless  surrender  that  yet  was 
as  defiant  as  a  trumpet  blast,  she  knew  herself  powerless 
for  ever. 

In  this  brief  pause  the  drama  of  her  woman's  life  was 
acted  out. 

Deliberately  the  man's  eyes  swept  round  the  room, 
seeking;  then  they  fell  on  her  —  and  they  grew  blank: 
in  her  presence  his  only  feeling  was  weariness;  a  weariness 
beyond  even  her  strength  to  kindle  into  anything  so  active 
as  hostility. 

"Let  us  dine,"  said  La  Marmora,  in  that  new,  odd, 
harsh  voice  that  seemed  not  so  much  to  speak  as  to  com- 
mand. She  swept  down  upon  Lord  Desmond;  and  he 
offered  his  arm.  It  was  only  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
dining  hall  that  she  spoke  again: 

"You  shall  see  Fifi  after  dinner." 

His  drooping  lids  were  suddenly  raised.  A  moment 
he  and  she  looked  at  each  other.  For  a  single  moment, 


282  PANTHER'S     CUB 

never  to  be  repeated,  soul  sought  and  found  soul,  and 
knew  it  an  enemy.  Then  convention  dropped  about  the 
man;  and  her  evil  purpose  caught  the  woman  back  to  her 
deadly  comedy  of  composure. 

The  meal  that  ensued  was  the  most  decorous,  and  ted- 
ious, that  the  marble  walls  had  ever  seen. 


VIII 
FRITZ  PRESUMES 

NEVER  afterward  could  Fifi  look  back  upon  this  June 
day  of  storm  without  a  shudder.  Those  blue  eyes  that 
had  held  a  light  of  joy  to  her  soul  since  she  had  first 
come  under  their  glance,  had  looked  upon  her  with  anger; 
with  scorn,  she  thought.  Oh!  what  had  he  heard  of 
her  ?  What  did  he  know  ? 

With  the  desperateness  of  her  youth  she  told  herself 
that  hope  was  dead ;  that  life  would  offer  her  nothing  any 
more  but  horrible  hours  between  the  people  of  her  mother's 
entourage  —  the  Robecqs  and  the  Scotts,  the  chattering, 
heartless,  fine  ladies,  the  dreadful  young  men  whose  every 
look  was  vaguely  insulting!  Nothing  but  Fritz's  scold- 
ings, his  sad  sternness,  and  her  mother's  tempers  and 
caresses  —  tempers  ever  more  frequent,  caresses  ever  rarer. 

These  weeks  in  England  had  begun  to  make  her  feel 
dimly  that  hers  was  no  normal  existence;  that  a  singer's 
glories  were  bought  by  the  sacrifice  of  too  much  that  was 
holy,  tender  and  peaceful.  Intangibly,  there  had  been 
gathering  a  pressure  as  of  danger  about  her. 

Now,  prone  on  her  bed,  in  a  tearless  lassitude  of  des- 
pair, she  told  herself  that  calamity  had  indeed  overtaken 
her.  He  had  passed  out  of  her  life,  and  without  him  life 
was  hideous. 

Elisa  roused  her  at  dusk: 

288 


284  PANTHER'S     CUB 

Madame  la  Comtesse  demanded  her. 

With  languid  feet  Fifi  dragged  herself  obediently  to  the 
summons ;  the  mood  was  upon  her  —  the  mood  of  all  such 
untried  spirits  in  trouble,  of  complete  surrender  to  her 
own  misfortunes ;  the  black  pessimism  that  not  only  expects 
woe  but  goes  to  meet  it. 

"Now  for  a  new  scene!"  thought  she.  And,  scarcely 
formed,  the  suggestion  came:  "She  will  be  so  angry 
because  Lord  Desmond  has  gone  away!" 

The  prima  donna,  loose-haired,  wrapped  loosely  in  a 
gorgeous  kimono,  held  out  her  arms. 

"  Viens,  cherie 

And  in  another  moment  the  daughter  was  enfolded; 
loving  words  fell  round  her : 

"  How  beautiful  she  is !  And  how  tall  —  is  she  not, 
Elisa  ?  Behold,  thou  art  grown  up,  Fifi,  but  to  thy  mother 
always  the  little  one 

Here  Fifi  felt  her  mother's  lips  upon  her  cheek:  they 
were  burning.  She  drew  back.  How  was  it  that  her 
heart  felt  so  heavy,  so  unable  to  respond  to  this  display 
of  tenderness?  Why  did  she  want  to  free  herself  from 
those  encircling  arms?  Why  did  her  mother's  face  look 
so  pale  and  strange?  And,  since  her  voice  was  soft,  why 
were  her  eyes  hard,  almost  cruel  ? 

She  turned  her  head  sharply,  and  met  Elisa's  gaze, 
Oh !  did  every  one  hate  her  ? 

"Fifi,"  came  those  accents  of  treacherous  sweetness, 
"  I  want  you  to  be  very  beautiful  to-night !  —  ma  vieille, 
you  must  do  Mademoiselle's  hair." 

And  Elisa  answered  with  extraordinary  amiability  for 
her: 


PANTHER'S     CUB  285 

"  It  is  as  Madame  la  Comtesse  wills."  And  then  added 
with  a  grimacing  smile:  "Mademoiselle  has  such  beau- 
tiful hair,  it  is  a  pity  it  should  not  be  well  dressed." 

"  Yes  —  yes,"  pursued  her  mistress,  with  a  feverish 
gaiety,  as  hollow-sounding  to  the  bewildered  child  as  her 
tone  of  caress  —  "  and  after  that,  we  will  dress  her, 
Elisa.  None  of  those  absurd  pensionnaire  frocks  now. 
How  about  that  white  satin  dress  of  mine  de  chez  Meyer  — 
the  one  with  the  crystals?  Would  it  not  become  her? 
Would  it  not  fit  her?  We  resemble  each  other  so  much." 

"  One  can  try,"  said  Elisa. 

With  a  last  pressure  Fulvia  released  the  girl's  shoulder. 
In  her  touch  there  was  an  underlying  fury  that  would 
more  gladly  have  strangled  than  petted;  her  mouth  was 
smiling,  the  eyes  had  the  same  dreadful  fixedness. 

Then  Elisa's  hard  hands  took  possession  of  the  victim 
and  forced  her  into  a  seat;  and,  while  the  mother  stood 
and  watched  and  criticized,  the  task  of  hair-dressing  was 
accomplished.  After  that  they  dressed  her. 

It  was  an  Empire  garment  that  fell  in  straight  folds 
from  the  shoulders;  cut  artfully  close  to  the  figure;  hung 
across  the  breast  with  chains  of  crystal  drops  that  dripped 
in  a  glittering  and  uneven  shower,  nearly  to  the  knee. 
A  wonderful  robe ! 

"It  is  a  little  short,"  said  the  maid,  sourly. 

"Eh  bien,  tant  mieux,"  retorted  La  Marmora.  "One 
will  see  that  she  has  well-shaped  feet." 

She  gave  an  unpleasant  laugh.  "You  can  wear  my 
silver  shoes,  la  petite." 

Then  she  whisked  her  up  to  the  long  pier-glass. 

"  See,  art  thou  not  fine  ?  " 


286  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The  girl  glanced,  half  afraid;  then,  at  the  vision  that 
met  her,  shimmering  white,  an  involuntary  smile  broke 
over  her  face.  It  was  true,  it  was  true;  she  was  a  woman 
grown,  she  was  beautiful ! 

"And  now  go,"  the  singer  had  a  sudden  grating  in  her 
voice.  "Do  not  disarrange  your  hair.  You  will  come 
down  after  dinner " 

A  second  she  paused,  darkly  surveying  the  radiant 
young  figure.  Then  she  took  the  girl  by  the  chin  and 
turned  her  face  round.  Fifi  felt  as  if  her  lids  were  weighted 
over  her  eyes. 

"You  will  be  good,"  said  the  mother  threateningly. 
"  You  will  do  what  I  tell  you  —  you  will  be  a  happy 
woman." 

"Mama!" 

"I  suppose  you  will  believe  that  I  know  what  is  for 
your  happiness?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  the  girl's  heart  was 
beating  as  if  it  would  break. 

"  If  you  don't  trust  your  mother "  went  on  the 

prima  donna,  with  a  piercing  sharpness  in  her  accents. 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do,"  burst  out  the  poor  child,  not  under- 
standing why  she  should  feel  so  tortured. 

"C'est  bien."  La  Marmora  moved  restlessly  toward 
her  dressing  table.  "Away  with  you,  then!  It's  a 
promise.  See  to  her,  Elisa,  and  if  she  goes  on  looking 
pale  like  that  —  just  dab  on  a  hint  of  rouge." 

Fifi's  little  bedroom  gave  on  to  the  drive.  And  as  she 
sat,  hugging  her  blue  kitten,  feeling  singularly  forlorn, 
she  heard  the  throbbing  of  a  motor  approaching  the 


PANTHER'S     CUB  287 

front  door.  One  of  the  dinner  guests,  no  doubt.  She 
had  a  sudden  sting  of  curiosity  to  see  who  was  arriving; 
her  mother  was  certainly  expecting  some  one  special. 
Even  as  she  rose,  her  heart  began  to  beat  heavily.  She 
wondered,  she  hoped  almost,  she  knew  whom  she  was 
going  to  see.  Her  knees  trembled  as  she  crossed  the 
room,  laying  the  sleeping  kitten  on  the  narrow  little 
bed  as  she  passed.  She  had  to  lean  against  the  case- 
ment as  she  looked  out  of  the  narrow  dormer  window. 
The  motor  had  halted;  its  occupant  was  alighting;  it  was 
Lord  Desmond. 

Instantly  the  whole  aspect  of  her  life  seemed  to  change. 
It  was  as  if  a  storm-shadowed  landscape  were  flooded 
with  sunshine.  He  had  come  back!  She  stood,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  over  the  painful  beating  of  her  heart. 
Then,  all  at  once  the  thought  struck  her  like  an  arrow. 
Was  it  because  of  this  her  mother  had  made  her 
beautiful,  had  dressed  her  like  a  woman,  had  told  her 
to  trust  ? 

As  one  may  feel  a  ghostly  presence  in  a  haunted  room, 
without  any  testimony  of  the  senses,  Fifi  had  long  been 
miserably  conscious  of  something  unnatural  and  threat- 
ening in  the  maternal  attitude  toward  herself  and  Lord 
Desmond.  Now  it  seemed  that,  though  her  mother  did 
not  like  this  wonderful  possibility  —  and  sometimes, 
indeed,  she  did  not  even  seem  to  be  pleased  when  so  old 
a  friend  as  the  Baron  himself  had  words  of  admiration  for 
her  —  she  would  not  stand  in  the  way  of  it.  Though  she 
was  angry,  she  would  help.  Had  she  not  robed  her  in 
her  own  garments  ?  Mothers  would  always  do  the  right 
thing!  Mothers  might  always  be  trusted! 


288  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Her  supper  tray  was  brought  in  to  her  by  the  panting 
underservant  that  was  thought  good  enough  to  wait  upon 
the  singer's  daughter;  but  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  ate 
any  more  than  what  she  was  reading  —  during  her  lonely 
meals  she  was  in  the  habit  of  having  an  open  book  before 
her.  Elisa  came  in  before  the  repast,  such  as  it  was,  was 
finished,  and  stood  surveying  her  with  a  measuring  scowl. 
The  girl  flung  from  her  lip»  the  morsel  she  was  about  to 
raise  to  them  —  she  could  not  have  swallowed  it  under 
that  glance! 

"If  you  have  done  stuffing  yourself?"  said  the  old 
woman  —  the  accent  brought  the  listener  back  to  the 
days  of  her  childhood  when  Elisa  had  been  a  terror  in 
her  life. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse  said  some  rouge,"  pursued  the 
lady's  maid.  She  manipulated  with  the  hare's  foot,  and 
then  tweaked  a  curl. 

"If  she  dared,  she  would  box  my  ears,"  thought  Fifi. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  —  a  square  mirror 
of  singularly  different  dimensions  from  any  of  those 
that  hung  in  the  great  colonnaded  bedroom  downstairs. 
She  thought  the  heightened  bloom  became  her  —  and 
yet  she  hesitated. 

"Allez,  maintenant"  said  Elisa. 

The  girl  caught  up  her  book  from  the  table  —  Heaven 
knew  how  long  she  might  not  have  to  wait  ?  —  and  went 
obediently.  The  old  woman  stood  at  the  door,  watching; 
following  her  with  her  eyes  down  the  narrow  passage 
where  the  sunny  head  nearly  touched  the  sloping  roof; 
gazing  with  that  long,  deep,  vindictive  look.  Already, 
something  of  Fifi's  tide  of  hope  and  joy  had  ebbed  as  she 


PANTHER'S    CUB  289 

descended  the  breakneck  stair  that  led  its  incongruous 
way  to  the  marble  splendours  below. 

When  she  entered  the  reception  room  she  was  alto- 
gether dashed  to  behold  old  Fritz. 

He  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  on  a  small  chair, 
both  hands  clasped  on  his  stick.  His  head  was  a  little 
bent,  as  if  listening.  She  felt  that  he  was  waiting  for  her; 
and  hated  herself  for  the  impulse  of  annoyance  and  rebel- 
lion that  instantly  sprang  within  her  at  sight  of  him. 

He  had  merely  to  raise  his  eyes  a  little  to  see  her;  and 
he  watched  her  approach  without  a  word.  It  was  only 
when  she  was  quite  close  to  him  that  he  spoke. 

"  What  grand  young  lady  have  we  here  ?  How  modish! 
How  elegant !  —  Can  this  be  any  one  of  my  acquaintance  ?" 

His  tone  was  bitterly  ironical;  but  in  his  eyes  severity 
was  almost  lost  in  sadness.  The  colour  rushed  to  the 
girl's  forehead,  to  her  rouged  cheeks.  Even  those 
unwontedly  bare  shoulders,  the  long  throat,  blushed. 
Yet  why  should  she  be  ashamed  ?  There  was  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of.  She  jerked  her  chin  defiantly. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  —  what's  wrong  with 
me?  My  frock  is  beautiful.  It's  Mama's.  And 
Mama  said  I  looked  beautiful  in  it." 

"So — !"  said  Fritz,  with  his  long  German  emphasis. 
"So  —  the  gown  is  beautiful  and  you  are  beautiful."  He 
rose  painfully  and  caught  her  by  the  arm,  as  she  was 
about  to  turn  away  in  petulance.  "It  is  beautiful  to  dis- 
figure the  head  God  has  given  you  duly  proportioned  into 
a  shape  only  a  savage  would  admire;  to  hide  the  brow, 
the  seat  of  intelligence,  the  throne  of  the  soul,  under 
these  untidy  curls?  Ach,  it  is  beautiful  to  be  dressed 


290  PANTHER'S     CUB 

like  a  Christmas  doll,  in  tinsel  and  beads!     Du  lieber! 
is  that  a  stocking  for  a  respectable  maiden  ?" 

He  bent  his  head  to  look  at  the  openwork  mesh  of 
silk  lace  that  was,  indeed,  somewhat  unduly  exposed  by 
the  shortness  of  the  skirt  in  front. 

"And  that  heel,  deforming  the  ankle.  Alas!  if  my 
blessed  mother  had  seen  a  daughter  of  hers  — 

She  flung  herself  from  him  in  a  sudden  passion  of  anger. 
She  was  unnerved  this  evening,  quivering  to  every  vibra- 
tion like  the  strings  of  an  overwound  instrument.  Fritz 
inspired  her  with  fear,  in  spite  of  herself;  his  disfavour 
cast  doubts  over  her  own  self-satisfaction.  When  one  is 
vitally  bent  upon  pleasing  it  takes  very  little  to  cast  down 
the  spirit. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  —  what's  the  matter 
with  me?"  she  repeated  stormily.  "My  shoes  and 
stockings,  now!  They're  Mama's,  too,  if  you  want 
to  know." 

He  stood  regarding  her.  Her  words  produced  no  per- 
ceptible impression  beyond  the  deepening  of  the  sadness 
in  his  eyes. 

"Your  mama  —  your  mama!"  he  echoed.  "The 
old  silly  reason!  See  then,  child,  how  often  must  I 
explain  that  what  may  be  becoming  to  the  mama  is 
not  therefore  becoming  to  the  daughter?  A  maiden 
must  dress  maidenly.  Oh,  Fifi,  that  I  should  see !  — 
Have  you  no  tucker,  my  poor  child  —  no  kerchief  ?" 

"It's  not  meant  to  have  a  tucker." 

She  spoke  rudely;  but  again  the  wave  of  blood  ran 
visibly  over  all  the  white  skin  to  the  shadow  of  those 
censured  curls;  she  turned  her  head  away  like  a  shame- 


PANTHER'S    CUB  291 

faced  child.  The  old  man's  sorrow-laden  gaze  grew  sud- 
denly tender.  He  sighed  heavily.  But  all  at  once  a  sharp 
ejaculation  escaped  him. 

"Heaven  be  good  to  me,  you've  painted  your  face!" 

"Fritz!" 

She  stamped  her  foot;  then  raised  her  hands  to  shield 
her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  don't,  Fritz!" 

The  book  had  fallen  from  her  clasp  in  the  action.  Sup- 
porting himself  on  his  stick,  he  bent  and  picked  it  up. 
One  glance  at  the  yellow  cover  sufficed.  In  his  turn  a 
storm  of  red  flushed  his  countenance;  the  veins  on  his 
forehead  swelled.  "You've  got  that  book  again!  Did 
I  not  warn  you  yesterday  at  the  cottage !" 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  end  of  it." 

"It  should  not  ever  have  been  even  between  your 
hands!"  he  thundered. 

She  tried  to  defend  herself. 

"I  heard  Mama  talking  about  it  again.  She  says  it 
is  cut  out  of  the  quick  —  cut  out  of  the  quick  —  her 
own  words." 

"Aye!"  He  interrupted  her  with  a  despairing  cry: 
"  Your  mama  —  your  mama ! " 

Propping  his  stick  against  his  chair,  he  tore  the  book 
deliberately  apart  and  flung  the  pieces  from  him  into  the 
bank  of  palms  behind  the  couch  with  unexpected  strength. 

"You  do  nothing  but  scold,  scold,"  protested  she,  on 
the  verge  of  irritable  tears.  "It's  a  stupid  old  book, 
anyhow.  The  stupidest  book  I  ever  read !  I  can't  make 
head  or  tail  of  it.  But  I'm  going  to  read  the  end  of  it,  all 
the  same.  I'm  tired  of  being  bullied,  bullied  by  every 


292  PANTHER'S     CUB 

one!  Do  you  think  I  can't  pick  it  out  of  that,  you  old 
silly?" 

As  if  the  weight  of  trouble  and  anger  were  too  much 
for  his  suffering  frame,  the  old  musician  sank  back  into 
the  chair.  The  hands  that  clasped  the  crutch  of  the 
stick  once  more  were  trembling. 

"Alas!"  he  said  brokenly.  "I  felt  it!  I  knew  it! 
Something  would  not  let  me  rest  to-night.  I  was  driven 
to  come  back  here  to  you.  Alas,  my  poor  child ! " 

There  was  a  pause.  Sullenly  she  drew  toward  the 
couch,  and  sat  on  the  end  of  it;  her  shoulders  turned 
upon  him,  her  head  averted,  picking  aimlessly  at  the  long 
fur.  She  must  keep  herself  angry,  or  she  would  cry. 
She  didn't  know  what  had  come  to  her  of  late;  she  was 
becoming  an  absolute  cry-baby. 

At  length  Fritz  spoke  again;  his  accents  were  calmer; 
but  they  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart,  in  their  masterfulness 
and  finality.  And  what  he  said  appalled  her: 

"  This  is  no  place  for  you.  This  life  of  your  mama's, 
of  the  great  singer,  the  people  she  must  see,  the  things 
you  must  hear  —  even  to  the  books  that  lie  about  for  you 
to  read  —  it  is  all  unfit  for  you  —  poison ! " 

Her  scared  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

"Poison!"  he  said  again.  And  his  voice  filled  the 
great  room.  Then  it  fell  and  softened : 

"  Come  over  to  me,  come  to  me,  Fifi." 

Slowly  she  obeyed,  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  him.  She 
was  like  a  child,  a  child  who  dreads  a  blow.  He  took 
her  unresponsive  hand. 

"  My  little  one !  —  There  is  the  old  farm-house  in  the 
valley  —  do  you  remember  ?  " 


PANTHER'S     CUB  293 

"  Where  your  sister  lives  ?  "  Angry  apprehension  had 
robbed  her  tones  of  all  their  young  music. 

"  You  used  to  like  to  hear  about  it  all,  in  the  old  days. 
Of  the  farm-house  with  the  garden,  and  the  old  well, 
the  bees,  the  cows,  and  the  goat " 

She  drew  her  hand  away. 

"It  does  not  amuse  me  any  more.  That  was  when  I 
was  quite  little." 

"And  yet,  child,  I  am  thinking  it  would  be  a  very  good 
thing  if  you  were  to  go  there  now  —  just  for  the  present." 

He  spoke  with  extreme  gentleness,  but  she  felt  an 
iron  inflexibility  of  purpose  behind  this  very  gentleness. 

She  cried  out,  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  "Oh!"  and 
again,  with  a  little  moan :  "  Oh! "  and  next  fury  seized  her. 
"  So  this  is  what  you've  been  plotting  ?  " 

Something  of  her  mother's  insolence  was  in  her  voice 
and  glance.  But  he  proceeded  as  if  he  had  neither  heard 
nor  felt. 

"For  the  present,  at  least,  certainly.  I  have  many 
times  wished  to  send  you  there;  but  it  was  never  the  right 
moment.  Now  it  is  the  right  moment  —  Mein  liebes 
Kind"  he  added  with  an  extraordinary  note  of  tender- 
ness, "  it  used  to  be  our  old  dream." 

She  moaned  again,  as  if  she  were  in  pain. 

"Oh,  Fritz,  I  couldn't;  I  couldn't!" 

He  caught  her  passionately  protesting  hand  in  his. 

"  Na,  does  piccolo  flute  lead  the  orchestra  ?  —  Du 
Kleine,  thou  must  let  the  old  man  decide  for  thee." 

And  here  it  was  that  the  rebellion,  secretly  gathering 
for  years,  broke  forth  from  her  at  last.  By  what  right 
did  the  old  repetitor  assume  this  guardianship  ?  Long 


294  PANTHER'S     CUB 

enough  she  had  suffered  under  his  unjustified  thrall. 
Too  long!  It  was  time  to  end  it. 

"  Decide  for  me !  —  You're  mad !  Why  should  you 
decide  for  me  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"  I  will  arrange  with  your  mama." 

Arrange  with  her  mother!  That  was  to  say,  give  his 
orders  and  see  them  enforced!  The  terror  of  his  unac- 
knowledged power  drove  her  to  insult. 

"How  dare  you!  —  how  dare  you!"  she  stammered. 
"Oh,  Mama  is  right,  she  has  been  saying  it  often 
enough;  we  have  spoiled  you,  she  and  I." 

The  old  man  turned  livid,  as  if  pierced  to  the  heart. 

"  Ach,  du  mein  Gott!"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

In  the  heavy  silence  that  succeeded  the  girl  grew 
ashamed  of  the  cruelty  of  her  youth  and  petulance. 
Two  or  three  times  she  looked  anxiously  at  the  bent 
gray  head,  hesitated  upon  speech,  yet  found  no  words, 
partly  lest  he  should  take  apology  for  submission  —  and 
submission  just  now,  was  impossible  —  partly  because 
she  really  dared  not  address  him.  At  length,  very  wearily 
and  with  a  great  effort,  he  got  up. 

"So — "  he  said,  in  an  extinguished  voice,  "that  is 
where  we  are!  Look  back  on  all  the  years  that  you 
can  remember,  Fifi.  Was  not  the  old  man  always  think- 
ing of  you,  caring  for  you  ?  The  holidays  you  spent  with 
him,  year  after  year,  from  the  schools.  That  summer 
when  you  had  the  fever,  and  you  would  let  no  one  else 
touch  you  —  the  treats  and  pleasures  he  invented  for 
you  —  it  all  appears  to  you,  now,  nothing  but  —  a  liberty! 
— A  liberty,  and  nothing  else " 


PANTHER'S     CUB  295 

"I  didn't  mean,"  she  faltered;  but  she  hung  back, 
and  her  eyes  were  still  shadowed  by  mistrust,  defiance. 

He  swayed  as  he  stood,  and  passed  his  handkerchief 
over  a  forehead  suddenly  wet  with  anguish. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said  faintly.  An  unbearable  spasm 
of  his  complaint  had  seized  him.  "This  is  too  much, 
I  am  not  yet  strong  enough." 

He  took  two  or  three  limping  paces  away  from  her, 
and  then  stopped,  calling  upon  all  his  forces,  to  stand 
and  speak  again: 

"Think  not  I  give  it  up,  child,"  he  said,  in  German, 
with  solemn  articulation.  "I  know  my  duty  at  last. 
Too  long  have  I  neglected  it." 

And  with  that,  dragging  himself,  he  left  her. 

The  girl  looked  after  him,  torn  between  conflicting 
emotions;  then  the  terror  of  his  threat,  of  all  it  would 
mean  to  her  if  fulfilled,  roused  her  to  an  impulse  of 
final  mutiny.  She  had  been  right;  Fritz  had  presumed! 
It  was  intolerable!  However  useful  he  might  be  to  her 
mother's  career,  her  own  life  should  no  longer  be  sacri- 
ficed to  his  old-fashioned  burgher  notions,  to  his  self- 
imposed  guardianship,  his  unwarranted  interferences. 

As  if  to  begin  the  work  of  self-defence,  she  first  has- 
tened to  survey  herself  in  the  most  accommodating 
mirror,  re-establishing  her  satisfaction  in  the  attire  he 
had  condemned.  Then  she  went  in  search  of  the  parted 
halves  of  the  book;  found  them  with  some  difficulty;  and 
deliberately  sat  down  to  read. 


IX 

A  PROPOSAL  OF  MARRIAGE 

THEY  were  at  dessert  round  the  pseudo-Greek  board. 
The  impresario  and  the  critic  had  laboured  to  keep  up 
conversation  during  the  meal.  Only  a  few  words  had  the 
prima  donna  contributed.  The  diplomatist  achieved  a 
record  of  silence. 

Now,  with  long,  naked  arms  propped  each  side  of  her 
neglected  plate,  La  Marmora  roused  herself  from  far 
contemplation,  to  fix  the  man  opposite  to  her,  Scott. 
He  was  delicately  peeling  a  peach. 

"  Ah  ca!  "  she  called  out  to  him, "  you  know  you  were  not 
invited  to  dine  here  to-night." 

He  glanced  up  jocularly. 

"  Was  I  not,  dear  lady  ?  —  Is  it  possible  ?  —  How  could 
I  have  made  so  agreeable  a  mistake  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  responsive  smile  in  the  set  face  of  the 
hostess. 

"You  have  such  a  sense  of  humour,"  she  sneered; 
"  it  is  not  possible  always  to  share  it,"  she  said.  "  Sup- 
pose, now,  you  were  to  rectify  —  this  mistake  of 
yours." 

The  Baron's  jaw  dropped. 

"My  dear  friend! — "  he  remonstrated  after  a  gasp  of 
horrified  astonishment. 

Mr.  Scott  also  was  gasping.  The  prima  donna  pur- 

£96 


PANTHER'S     CUB  297 

sued,  with  that  gathering  fury  in  her  voice  which  resem- 
bled a  growl. 

"Ah,  do  you  take  me  for  the  kind  of  person  that  it  is 
safe  to  play  tricks  on  ?  —  Is  my  house  to  be  made  free 
with  as  it  were  a  restaurant  ?  —  Do  you  walk  in  here  to 
meet  whom  you  will  —  suit  your  little  games,  smoke, 
drink,  feed 

But  Scott  had  risen,  and  his  action  brought  her  to 
a  standstill,  breathing  heavily  through  her  dilated 
nostrils  and  measuring  him  with  glaring  eyes  as  he 
advanced  round  the  length  of  the  table,  toward  her 
in  —  considering  the  circumstances  —  a  very  creditable 
dignity. 

"I  trust,  my  dear  lady,"  he  began  and  though  his  fat, 
pink  face  had  grown  pale,  his  voice  remained  urbane, 
"that  if  I  have  erred  in  construing  a  special  into  a  gen- 
eral invitation,  you  will  allow  me  to  rectify  my  error,  with 
all  possible  alacrity  —  only  the  privilege  of  kissing  your 
hand,  and  a  word  of  apology " 

She  waved  him  from  her.  "  No,  no  —  no  apology ! " 
Whether  intentionally  or  not,  her  angry  gesticulation 
pointed  toward  the  portiere. 

"  If  I  may  not  speak,  I  can  write,"  said  the  critic,  then, 
with  a  hissing  breath. 

His  eyes  met  those  of  the  Baron;  he  waved  his  loosely 
hung  hand  toward  that  gentleman's  countenance  of  des- 
pair, nodded  at  Desmond,  and  marched  out  of  the  room. 

The  manager  struck  his  forehead. 

"And  he  will  write,  too!"  he  groaned.  "You  will 
get  an  apology  —  from  him  —  the  morning  after  Salome, 
my  dear!  To  think,"  he  proceeded  almost  tearfully, 


298  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"that  I  have  put  up  with  Philip  Scott  for  fifteen  years, 
and  that  this  is  how  we  stand!" 

"Ah,  vous  m'assommez!"  said  the  singer. 

Her  manager  flung  upon  her  a  single  irate  glance;  then, 
in  his  turn,  he  rose  suddenly. 

"  At  least  I  am  not  out  of  my  mind,"  he  said  with  more 
bitterness  than  he  often  allowed  himself  to  betray.  "  You'll 
excuse  me,  if  I  follow  our  poor  friend." 

"  Oh,  go,  go  —  "  she  agreed  with  a  fierce  little  laugh, 
"  and,  by  the  same  occasion,  tell  Fifi  that  we  expect  to  find 
her  waiting  for  us  presently."  She  pronounced  these 
words  with  significant  emphasis,  and  added:  "You 
needn't  hurry  back,  Robecq." 

The  other,  moving  deliberately  away,  did  not  turn  his 
head.  Lord  Desmond  sat  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate. 
For  the  sake  of  that  interview  with  Fifi,  so  strangely  prof- 
f erred,  he  was  willing  to  wait  even  an  hour  longer  in  the 
Panther's  den;  the  more  readily  that  the  eyes  turned 
upon  him  were,  to-night,  those  of  hatred. 

A  minute  or  two  passed  in  heavy  silence;  and  then  the 
woman  spoke: 

"  Have  you  got  any  cigarettes  ?  —  Pass  them  to  me.  I 
will  smoke." 

He  pushed  his  silver  case  without  a  word,  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  toward  her. 

But  she,  leaning  suddenly  forward,  caught  his  hand 
with  a  grip  and  lit  the  cigarette  thus.  She  drove  her 
nails  into  his  wrist  as  she  clutched  it.  Then  she  puffed 
a  cloud  of  smoke  at  him  and  released  him  with  a  spas- 
modic gesture  that  was  as  savage  as  a  blow. 

"Why  did  you  send  me  lily  of  the  valley?"  she  asked. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  299 

He  drew  his  cuff  over  the  marks  left  on  his  wrist,  took 
up  a  cigarette  with  long,  pale  fingers;  and  only  after  he 
had  deliberately  lighted  it,  answered: 

"I  did  not  send  them  to  you." 

Her  breast  heaved  stormily;  the  great  rough  jewels 
flashing  and  darkening  as  they  rose  and  fell. 

"  Comment  cela?  " 

"  I  sent  them  to  Mademoiselle  Lovinska,"  he  explained, 
in  French,  likewise. 

She  dashed  her  cigarette  from  her,  caught  her  throat 
with  one  hand  as  if  she  were  strangling,  and,  with  a 
supreme  effort,  restrained  the  cry  of  fury  that  was  surging 
to  her  lips. 

Desmond  cast  down  his  eyes.  This  was  extremely 
tiresome  and  boring;  but  it  was  better  than  being  smiled 
upon. 

All  at  once  she  reached  across  the  table  again  —  this 
time  only  touching  the  back  of  his  hand  with  a  cold  finger. 
"You  wrote:  'For  Madame  la  Marmora'  on  your  card," 
she  said,  under  her  breath. 

He  glanced  at  her.  Her  lips  were  distended  in  a  dread- 
ful smile.  His  blue  eyes  grew  steely. 

"I  beg  your  pardon:  I  wrote:  'For  Mademoiselle '- 
I  meant  the  flowers  for  Mademoiselle." 

"C'est  bien,"  she  said,  "c'est  bien." 

She  clutched  the  curved  arms  of  her  classic  chair  with  a 
fierceness  that  made  each  bone  start.  "C'est  bien,"  she 
repeated  in  a  fainter  voice:  "you  will  have  occasion  to 
send  her  more  flowers,  by  and  by." 

Almost  for  the  span  of  a  minute,  she  sat  in  this  tense 
attitude,  her  head  craned  forward,  her  eyes  rending  him; 


800  PANTHER'S    CUB 

all  the  beautiful  curves  of  throat  and  shoulders  distorted. 
Then,  once  more  fiercely  mistress  of  herself  —  was  it  not 
worth  while  to  wait  for  the  moment  of  vengeance  ?  — 
she  fell  upon  his  cigarette  case  and  match-box,  turned 
out  the  whole  contents  of  the  case  and  began  to  light 
and  smoke  one  cigarette  after  the  other,  with  an  extra- 
ordinary swiftness  and  intensity. 

The  man  lay  back  in  his  chair,  patient,  abstracted  — 
determined.  A  dead  silence  lay  between  them. 

By  the  exit  he  had  chosen  Scott  was  obliged  to  cross 
the  reception  room  on  his  way  out  of  the  house.  Fifi, 
yainly  endeavouring  to  concentrate  her  attention  upon 
the  "stupidest  book  she'd  ever  read,"  glanced  up,  with 
a  leap  of  the  heart,  to  find  that  the  entering  figure  dis- 
played merely  the  rotundity,  the  close-cropped  gray  hair, 
the  odious  smirking  face  of  the  man  she  most  disliked  of 
all  her  mother's  friends.  Hers  was  an  expressive  coun- 
tenance. The  critic,  approaching,  met  her  glance  of 
greeting  with  one  that  was  nothing  less  than  vindictive. 

Vaguely  she  thought:  "This  is  the  fourth,  to-day,  who 
has  looked  at  me  with  dislike!"     Even  the  blue  eyes  — 
even  the  blue  eyes  had  contemned.     Was  it  only  in  old 
Fritz's  stern  gaze  that  she  was  to  find  an  abiding  depth 
of  love  ? 

"Hullo,  Miss  Fifi,"  said  the  intruder,  after  running 
her  up  and  down  with  his  malevolent  scrutiny,  "not 
gracing  the  dinner  table  —  and  you  so  beautiful!" 

"And  how  is  it,"  she  cried,  flushing  —  in  her  unlearnt 
habit  of  schoolgirl  retort,  "how  is  it  that  you  are  no  longer 
gracing  the  dinner  table,  and  you  so  beautiful  ?" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  301 

He  had  a  small  laugh  which  would  have  made  the 
blood  of  the  sagacious  Baron  run  cold. 

"I  have  been  already  quite  sufficiently  well  enter- 
tained to-night,  thank  you,  Miss  Fifi.  We  critics,  you 
know,"  he  waved  his  limp-wristed  hands,  "the  servants 
of  the  public!  —  the  servants  of  the  public!  —  Ta-ta,  mj 
young  friend!" 

He  blew  her  a  kiss  that  was  the  acme  of  insolence; 
squinted  at  the  yellow-covered  book  on  her  lap,  and 
chuckled  loudly,  as  he  trotted  away. 

The  weighted  portiere  was  slowly  settling  down  behind 
him,  when  Robecq  stepped  into  the  room  from  the  oppo- 
site side. 

He  came  halfway  across,  then  paused. 

"Was  that  Scott?" 

The  girl  nodded.  Her  underlip  was  slightly  thrust 
forth;  another  tiresome  person 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  pig  in  a  rage?"  she  cried. 
"That's  what  that  horrid  little  man  looked  like.  What 
did  you  do  to  him?" 

The  impresario  made  no  reply;  he  was  reflecting.  The 
mischief  was  done;  to  admit  fear  now,  by  trying  to  apolo- 
gize for  the  woman,  would  only  be  to  intensify  it.  It  is 
hopeless  to  try  and  caress  back  into  good-humour  a  poison- 
ous reptile  roused  to  anger;  better  stamp  on  it  —  safer 
still,  get  out  of  its  path!  The  outer  door  was  slammed 
upon  his  conclusion. 

And  our  friend  will  have  to  walk  to  the  station.  As 
far  as  the  Commonwealth  Review  is  concerned,  Salome's 
dished!  Well,  Salome  herself  had  still  to  be  conciliated, 
if  Salome  there  was  to  be  at  all! 


302  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The  poor  manager  passed  a  hand  over  his  careworn 
brow,  and  set  himself  with  what  courage  he  might  to  his 
desperate  task.  He  advanced,  smiling  his  genial  smile, 
and  sat  down  beside  the  girl,  who  made  room  for  him,  not 
very  graciously. 

"Kitten  well,  Miss  Fifi?" 

Her  face  lit  up  immediately. 

"Oh,  such  a  darling!  —  I  left  him  asleep  in  the  very 
middle  of  my  bed.  Do  you  know  that  his  eyes  are  turn- 
ing green  ?  " 

"They'll  be  orange,  all  right,  in  a  month  or  so." 

"  Orange  ?  "  She  dwelt  on  the  thought  with  a  delighted 
smile. 

His  glance  mused  on  her.  The  mischief,  to  keep  a 
splendid  creature  like  that  in  leading  strings!  Positively, 
"Kittens"  seemed  the  only  subject  that  they  could  meet 
upon  so  far.  He  drove  his  fingers  into  his  beard  and 
began  again: 

"Had  a  good  supper,  Miss  Fifi  ?" 

The  light  died  out  of  her  face.  The  pouting  mouth 
betrayed  her  sense  of  injury. 

"Tea  and  a  boiled  egg." 

"Too  bad!" 

After  all,  this  was  not  such  a  bad  start.  The  young, 
beautiful,  slighted  being  edged  closer  to  her  only  helper. 

"  Mama  is  so  strange  to-night !  —  She  dressed  me  up 
like  this,  hours  and  hours  ago.  Said  that  I  was  grown 
up,  quite  grown  up,  and  that  I  looked  —  well,  rather 
nice!  —  And  then  in  the  same  breath  says  I'm  not  to 
come  down  till  after  dinner  and  treats  me  as  if  I  was  two 
years  old." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  303 

"Is  that  so?"  said  the  listener  with  emphatic  sym- 
pathy. 

He  hesitated  upon  the  advisability  of  taking  her  hand; 
but  refrained. 

"Nobody  wants  me,"  she  went  on  with  a  trembling 
lip. 

"My  dear  little  girl "  he  purred. 

But  she  broke  in  again,  all  to  her  grievance,  unheed- 
ing the  motion  of  his  arm  behind  her,  the  kindling  of  his 
gaze  upon  her: 

"It's  been  a  horrid  day!  Everybody  is  so  cross,  so 
odd!" 

"I  hope  I've  not  seemed  cross,  or  — "  he  gave  a  faintly 
nervous  laugh,  "or  —  odd?" 

She  brushed  the  suggestion  away  with  complete  indif- 
ference. 

"Oh,  no,  not  you.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you.  Elisa 
and  —  and  —  The  name  burning  on  her  heart  was 

the  last  she  could  pronounce.     "Elisa  and  Fritz!     And 

Mama!      Mama   was     odd.      Quite,    quite   kind " 

She  was  unconscious  of  any  irony.     "But  Fritz  was  hor- 
rid.    He  wants  to  have  me  sent  away  —  to  Germany! 
Oh,    Baron"  —she    flung    out    both    hands    to    him  — 
"Baron,  don't  let  them!     You'll  stand  up  for  me  ?    Don't 
let  them!" 

He  caught  the  impulsive  hands  and  pressed  them 
reassuringly,  tenderly.  Old  Fritz  was  an  unsuspecting 
ally  indeed  just  now  —  Fritz,  his  most  dreaded  opponent! 

"Ah  —  he  wants  to  send  you  back  to  Germany, 
does  he?  That's  too  bad!  No,  no,  we  won't  allow 
that." 


304  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"You'll  stand  my  friend,  won't  you?"  she  pleaded, 
her  dewy  eyes  widening  upon  him. 

"Indeed,  I  will,  dear  little  friend." 

The  pressure  of  his  clasp  had  become  so  ardent  that, 
instinctively,  she  drew  her  hands  away.  Yet,  absorbed 
in  her  trouble,  she  scarcely  realized  her  own  action.  He 
was  not  displeased  at  the  withdrawal;  the  sooner  she 
regarded  him  as  a  man  —  and  not  a  vieux  papa,  the  better. 
He  pursued  what  he  thought  his  advantage. 

"You're  tired  of  always  being  treated  like  a  child,  aren't 
you?" 

"You  know  I'm  twenty-one  —  " 

The  pent-up  indignation  of  a  long-felt  injury  flashed  in 
her  glance,  resounded  in  her  voice. 

"Hush  —  hush!"  He  put  his  finger  on  his  lips. 
"We  don't  announce  that  quite  so  loud,  do  we?  —  Your 
Mama's  a  little  nervous  to-night.  The  fact  is,  my 
dear  Miss  Fifi,  you  ought  to  be  married  —  married,  my 
dear.  And  then  no  one  would  dare  to  order  you  about." 

"Married!" 

A  lovely  carmine  rushed  to  her  face.  She  flung  a 
fugitive  look  upon  him  —  a  look  of  shyness  exquisitely 
hovering  on  happiness  —  then  dropped  her  eyelids.  Her 
heart  was  in  a  tumult.  Had  not  her  mother  told  her  to 
trust  ?  Was  this  old  friend  sent  further  to  prepare  her  ? 
Lord  Desmond  was  even  now  in  the  dining  room.  Per- 
haps discussing.  She  had  learned  abroad  how  parents 
arrange  marriages  first. 

The  Baron  was  proceeding. 

"You  would  do  just  as  you  liked.  It  would  be  better 
than  going  to  Germany,  wouldn't  it?" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  305 

The  reminder  stung  her  into  mingled  scorn  and  fear. 

"Germany!  In  the  farm-house  —  with  Fritz's  old 
sister !  Oh !  I'm  likely  to  be  married  there,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"You've  only  got  to  say  the  word  — you  shan't  go  to 
Germany." 

"Oh,  Baron,  you'll  —  you  mean "  She  checked 

herself.  Again  embarrassment  seized  her.  She  laughed, 
confused,  blushing.  "  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know " 

In  his  phraseology,  "she  was  adorable!"  —  The  task 
he  had  thought  so  inopportune  was  becoming  over- 
whelmingly attractive.  His  strong  head  began  to  swim, 
ever  so  slightly. 

"Ah,  but  I  know —My  little  friend " 

He  took  her  hand,  with  a  soft  gesture;  and  as  it  lay  inert 
in  his,  the  ardour  of  his  pressure  grew  again.  "My 
little  friend  would  like  to  be  married  —  to  have  a  home 
of  her  own.  To  have  some  one  to  order  about  —  instead 
of  being  ordered  about  herself." 

The  flushed  face  was  turned  with  a  quick  movement 
of  astonishment  upon  him,  the  golden-hazel  eyes  were 
startled  from  their  shy  dream.  But  he  was  carried 
away. 

"Some  one  who  would  do  all  she  wants,"  he  was  urging 
amorously,  "always,  always!  Who  would  give  her  as 
much  money  to  spend  as  she  liked  —  dresses,  jewels, 
pearls !  Pearls,  Miss  Fifi  —  for  that  long,  beautiful 
throat!  A  great  immense  rope  of  pearls  — 

Her  hand  was  struggling  in  his,  like  an  imprisoned  bird; 
her  glance  fluttered  uneasily  from  his  gaze.  She  had 
never  seen  the  Baron  look  like  that.  She  hardly  knew 
what  it  meant;  but  it  both  offended  and  terrified  her. 


306  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"I  don't  understand !"  she  faltered. 

He  could  not  stop  himself  now.  Ever  more  closely 
he  held  her;  ever  more  ardently  proceeded: 

"Wouldn't  you  like  pearls?  They  needn't  pre- 
vent diamonds!  Fifi,  one  word,  come,  you  are  not 
afraid  of  me,  are  you  ?  —  Won't  you  be  my  little 
baroness?" 

Utter  amazement  robbed  her  for  the  moment  of  all 
power  to  struggle. 

"You—!     You?" 

"Even  myself 

"You  —  want  to  marry  —  me  ?" 

"More  than  —  than  the  whole  world!" 

She  freed  herself  with  sudden  strength.  Then  the 
tension  of  her  multiplied  emotions  culminated  in  a  burst 
of  hysterical  laughter. 

"Me? — You! — I  marry  you!    Oh,  good  gracious !" 

A  second  or  two  he  contemplated  her,  and  the  look  that 
had  frightened  her  in  his  eyes  became  intensified  into 
something  approaching  ferocity.  The  most  spiritual 
man  is  doubled  with  the  brute.  The  Baron  was  not 
spiritual. 

"Do  you  prefer  Germany?  —  Exile  to  the  farm-house 
of  Fritz's  old  sister?  Or  some  other  school  or  institu- 
tion where  you'll  be  kept  till  all  your  youth  is  gone  ? 
I  tell  you  I  can't  fight  for  you,  unless  you  are  my  wife. 
I'm  powerless,  between  your  mother  and  Fritz  —  unless 
you  are  my  wife.  Oh,  you  laughed  at  the  bare  idea  — 
laugh  away!  We  shall  laugh  together,  by  and  by,  my 
beauty!" 

He  caught  her  round  the  waist. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  307 

The  black  fear,  with  which  she  had  heard  him  expound 
the  situation,  had  felt  its  stabbing  truth,  was  succeeded 
by  a  blind  panic  of  revolt  as  his  touch  encircled  her. 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go ! " 

"One  kiss,  first " 

The  impresario  had  lost  his  head.  Excellent  mate- 
rialist as  he  was,  life  had  never  given  him  an  emotion  even 
approaching  this  before.  His  brain  had  schemed  and 
worked  for  the  wealth,  the  comfort,  the  power,  he  had  alone 
deemed  covetable.  Love  had  found  no  room  in  his 
measured  and  successful  existence.  The  passion  of  the 
man  whose  time  for  passion  is  almost  past  was  now 
drowning  all  his  usual  faculties;  breaking  down  the  guard 
of  years,  sweeping  him  he  scarce  knew  where.  And  at 
the  back  of  it  all  was  the  consciousness  that  he  must 
be  victorious,  to-night,  at  once!  Not  only  for  the  sake 
of  his  great  venture,  but  because  if  he  failed  now,  as  a 
lover,  the  moment  might  never  strike  again. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  panted  and  then  screamed.  The 
piercingness  of  her  cry  drove  them  apart  like  a 
sword. 

"  How  dare  you.  .  .  ! "  She  had  sprung  to  her  feet 
and  stood,  scorning  him;  beautiful  like  some  young  Val- 
kyrie in  her  storm  of  outraged  maidenliness.  "How 
dare  you  touch  me,  you  horrible  old  man!  How  dare 
you  think  you  can  buy  me,  with  your  pearls,  your  jewels ! 
.  .  .  I  marry  you !  The  very  sight  of  you  makes  me 
sick!" 

The  language  was  that  of  a  schoolgirl;  but  the  resent- 
ment that  dictated  it  was  all  of  a  woman. 

The  Baron  sat,  motionless,  staring  before  him. 


308  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Man  is  so  made,  that  the  tenser  the  emotion,  whether 
of  the  senses  or  of  the  spirit,  the  more  rapidly  it  passes. 
Of  its  own  violence  it  dies.  Rueful,  ashamed,  the  man- 
ager felt  his  heat  of  passion  subside;  and  he  looked  only 
on  his  own  folly. 

"And  this  is  what  comes  of  mixing  pleasure  and  busi- 
ness!" he  thought. 

Fifi's  cry  pierced  into  the  dining  hall  and  struck  the 
two  who  sat  there.  La  Marmora  dropped  her  cigarette, 
and  sat  listening  for  one  moment  of  keenly  arrested 
attention,  nostrils  widened,  brows  contracted  —  her 
glance  sideways  flung.  Lord  Desmond  leaned  forward 
and  fixed  her.  That  was  Fifi's  voice!  What  was  hap- 
pening there  within  ?  The  Panther  knew. 

Both  unconsciously  waited  for  a  second  call;  but  half 
a  minute  passed,  and  still  there  was  silence  —  a  silence 
that  became  sinister,  unendurable  to  the  man.  He  rose 
and  impulsively  hastened  toward  the  archway.  His 
hostess  overtook  him  as  he  lifted  the  portiere,  and  brushed 
out  before  him,  almost  flinging  the  silk  folds  back  in  his 
face,  as  if  to  exclude  him. 

He  saw,  with  a  vague  wonder,  as  he  disengaged  himself, 
that  his  hands  were  trembling. 

At  sight  of  her  mother,  Fifi  sprang  down  from  the 
dais  toward  her,  and  then  brought  herself  up  short.  She 
cast  one  swift  look  from  the  singer's  face  to  that  of  Lord 
Desmond,  and  back  again;  and  stood,  head  upflung, 
with  fluctuating  colour  and  fingers  nervously  interlaced 
—  a  creature  at  bay. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  309 

La  Marmora  had  halted  too.  Now  she  bore  down  on 
Robecq. 

"Well ?" 

The  single  word  rang  out  like  the  crack  of  a  whip. 
Robecq  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Ah!" — The  singer  drew  in  her  breath;  then,  gut- 
terally,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  rise  straight  from  those 
hidden  depths  of  vulgarity  in  her  soul:  "What's  the 
meaning  of  this  ?  "  she  fulminated. 

Once  again  the  impresario  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
with  ever  so  slight  a  gesture  toward  the  motionless  figure 
of  Lord  Desmond.  A  moment  he  sought  to  catch  the 
diplomatist's  eye  —  to  convey  a  warning,  a  reassurance, 
as  if  he  said:  "Do  not  attach  any  importance  to  this 
little  scene.  Singers  are  impossible  creatures  —  who 
should  know  better  than  I  ?  Only  let  us  remain  normal ! " 
Then  he  got  up,  and  advanced  to  his  troublesome  property ; 
the  old,  good-humoured,  deliberate,  resigned  Robecq. 

"  My  dear  friend,  there's  nothing  to  agitate  you.  Miss 
Fifi  is  a  little  startled.  Your  humble  servant  has  been 
duly  snubbed.  Give  us  all  time  —  a  little  more  time!" 

His  words,  well-meaning  as  they  were,  roused  the 
girl  to  a  renewal  of  panic ! 

"Mama  —  Mama,"  she  cried,  high-voiced;  "he  talks 
of  marrying  me !  Me ! " 

The  mother  turned  like  a  viper. 

"Well?" 

She  caught  the  arm  that  had  been  outstretched  in 
appeal,  so  savagely  that  the  Baron  instinctively  sprang 
forward. 

"  Laissez  moi  faire!  "  she  hissed  at  him. 


310  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Then  her  last  remnant  of  self-control  gave  way.  She 
had  prepared  a  sensation  and  it  had  failed.  But  venge- 
ance was  not  relinquished.  All  the  baseness  in  her 
poured  in  remorseless  fury  and  hatred  from  her  lips. 

"Parole  d'honneur!  .  .  .  What  do  you  expect, 
I  should  like  to  know !  You  little  fool  —  sotte!  petite 
sotte!  To  what  do  you  aspire,  I  wonder  ?  What  do  you 
think  you  were  allowed  out  of  the  school-room  for? 
What  do  you  think  I  burdened  myself  with  you  for, 
all  these  months  ?  Idiote,  imbecile,  bete  que  iu  esl  Who 
are  you,  what  are  you,  to  set  yourself  against  your  mother  ? 
.  .  .  Ingrate!  .  .  .  Your  mother!  Hold  your 
tongue,  Robecq!  I  will  manage  this!  Allans!  Here 
is  her  hand." 

"Mama!  Oh,  no,  Mama!"  Fifi  struggled  against 
that  savage  grip  in  vain;  then  flung  her  free  hand 
over  her  eyes.  (Before  Lord  Desmond  she  was  ready 
to  die  of  shame.) 

"  It  is  yes  —  it  is  yes !  I  tell  you  it  is  yes ! "  The 
mother  had  an  atrocious  mirth  in  her  throat.  "Here, 
take  her  hand,  Baron!" 

(And  he  was  standing  by,  without  a  word !) 

"I  won't!"  screamed  the  girl,  pushed  beyond  the  limits 
of  endurance.  "I  never  will!  Ah,  you  think  I  don't 
understand.  I  know  why  you  want  to  marry  me  off!" 
She  fought  to  disengage  herself,  and  with  a  supreme 
wrench  succeeded.  "I  know  why  you  want  to  get  me 
out  of  the  way." 

She  did  not  know  what  she  was  saying. 

"Ah,  be  quiet,  you  silly  child!"  whispered  Robecq 
in  her  ear. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  311 

In  vain  that  he  remained  "normal"!  Abnormal 
passions  were  at  work  and  the  drama  swept  by  him, 
beyond  his  power  to  control.  As  well  might  a  man  strive 
to  stem  a  flood  with  the  sluice-gate  of  the  roadside 
stream. 

"You  want  to  get  me  out  of  the  way,"  repeated  the 
girl  in  her  high,  strained  note,  that  rang  close  upon  tears. 
"  I  can't  help  being  young !  I  can't  help  growing  up  — 
I  can't  help  people  liking  me " 

Whether  intentionally  or  whether  with  a  mere  instinct 
of  seeking  for  help  from  the  quarter  she  most  yearned 
to  receive  it  from,  here  she  turned  and  sought  Lord 
Desmond  with  her  eyes.  The  Panther  caught  the  glance; 
and  with  a  sharp  cry  of  rage,  that  snarl  in  her  throat, 
with  which  the  Baron  had  been  ominously  acquainted 
once  or  twice  before,  she  struck  her  child  on  the  cheek. 

"My  God!  .  .  ."  The  Baron  was  the  only  one 
of  the  four  who  called  out.  Fifi  stood  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  her  head  raised ;  on  her  countenance,  white  behind 
the  spots  of  rouge,  the  mark  of  the  blow  began  to  stand 
out,  flaming. 

La  Marmora  was  crouching,  in  the  attitude  in  which 
she  had  struck. 

Desmond,  suddenly  gray-faced,  still  made  no  move- 
ment, until  Robecq  flung  an  imperative  gesture  toward 
him,  bidding  instant  departure.  Then  he  looked  once  at 
Fifi,  once  at  the  Panther  —  the  extreme  of  passion  and 
the  extreme  of  loathing  were  in  those  two  glances  —  and 
slowly  turned  and  walked  from  the  place:  not  through 
the  archway  that  led  into  the  hall,  but  through  the  open 
columns  of  the  terrace.  He  was  pursued  by  different 


312  PANTHER'S    CUB 

sounds;  a  long,  throbbing,  hysterical  cry  from  La  Mar- 
mora, as  she  sank  into  Robecq's  arms,  and  from  Fifi's 
lips,  laughter! 

Out  of  the  girl's  outraged  heart  this  dreadful  laughter 
sprang.  Tears  were  too  sacred  and  too  healing  to  be 
granted  to  such  an  injury  as  hers. 

Without  more  ado,  the  impresario  hustled  the  writh- 
ing woman  out  of  the  room.  In  sheer  humanity  he  could 
not  leave  the  Panther  to  maltreat  her  cub  any  more; 
besides  this,  the  commercial  instinct  was  once  more  assert- 
ing itself.  It  had  indeed  been  a  disastrous  evening  for 
him;  but  prompt  action  might  still  save  his  investment. 
The  first  thing  was  to  put  a  stop  to  the  damaging  shrieks, 
any  one  of  which  might  be  fatal  to  that  golden  asset  — 
Salome's  voice. 

"  You  will  do  this  once  too  often,  my  dear,"  he  had  said 
in  Vienna.  If  he  had  had  a  bottle  of  chloroform  to  his 
hand,  he  had  been  capable  of  smothering  her  with  it 
that  moment! 


X 

ANOTHER  PROPOSAL 

DESMOND  went  deliberately  down  into  the  syringa  walk. 
It  was  damp  and  chill  after  the  rain  —  but  the  perfume 
was  intoxicating.  Here  he  had  planned,  by  some  means 
or  other,  to  walk  with  his  nymph  that  night;  to  grasp, 
without  regard  to  the  future,  some  hour  of  entrancement, 
some  exquisite  dalliance  with  the  infatuation  that  was 
consuming  him. 

When  he  had  formed  this  resolution,  he  had  been  once 
again  under  the  spell  of  the  temptation  that  bade  him 
gather  at  least  a  memory  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  A  kiss, 
and  a  farewell.  .  .  .  Or,  a  kiss  and  after  that  the 
deluge!  What  did  it  matter?  Among  the  syringa 
bushes,  he  and  she  alone  .  .  .  and  at  least  once 
his  lips  on  hers! 

But  now  all  was  changed;  he  carried  down  with  him 
an  image  that  seemed  to  go  visibly,  lit  by  flame,  beside 
him.  No  longer  his  nymph,  but  a  creature  with  head 
flung  back  and  eyes  at  bay;  hung  with  mock  brilliants 
that  glittered  and  trembled  like  a  fiery  spray  with  the 
beating  of  her  heart,  with  the  panting  of  her  breath.  A 
creature  in  the  very  flower  of  her  young  womanhood, 
with  exquisite  naked  shoulders  and  arms,  and  feet  arched 
like  those  of  a  goddess,  exposed  by  that  ill-fitting  finery 
of  sweeping  satin;  with  painted  face,  one  poor  cheek 

313 


314  PANTHER'S     CUB 

blazing  the  shame  of  her  mother's  blow.  A  helpless 
thing;  frail,  most  piteous!  The  virginal  woodland  thing 
no  longer,  alas !  but  only  Fifi,  the  Panther's  Cub ! 

He  paced  the  syringa  walk  from  end  to  end  once.  The 
languor  of  the  soft  dark  night  and  the  poison  sweetness 
of  the  flowers  entered  into  his  veins.  The  throbbing  of 
his  pulses  settled  down  at  last  to  the  long,  slow  hammer 
of  intensified  excitement  which  the  strong  man  mistakes 
for  calmness. 

His  mind  had  been  made  up,  he  told  himself,  from 
the  moment  her  cry  had  pierced  to  his  ears;  it  was  a  cry 
for  help  —  It  was  a  cry  for  him !  What  he  could  give 
her,  he  would  give. 

But  he  had  not  sought  this  solitary  spot  to  battle  with 
his  feelings,  not  even  to  encourage  himself  to  irretriev- 
able action;  he  only  wanted  to  contemplate  the  fixity 
of  his  own  resolution  a  minute  or  two,  apart;  to  let  the 
molten  heat  of  it  harden,  as  it  were,  into  steel. 

It  was  almost  with  a  light  step  that  he  sprang  up  the 
grass  stairs  once  more.  Now,  he  had  merely  the  detail 
of  his  action  to  settle,  and  the  first  move  was  to  see  Fifi 
alone. 

He  halted  in  the  shadow,  as  once  before  he  had  done, 
and  listened.  All  was  silent.  At  least  the  fantastic 
marble  hall  had  this  advantage;  it  held  no  secret,  either 
of  sight  or  sound,  from  the  garden  these  summer  nights. 

Empty !     Was  it  empty  ? 

He  came  up  the  slope  with  caution.  If  necessary, 
he  must  find  some  way  of  communication  with  his  poor 
girl  this  very  night;  bribe,  or  coax,  or  demand  —  he  felt 
reckless  enough  for  anything. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  315 

Something  like  a  moan  floated  out  upon  the  delicate 
peace  of  the  air.  His  heart  contracted,  and  then  burned. 
What  were  they  doing  to  her  ? 

With  a  leap  he  bounded  up  the  marble  steps,  and  then, 
dazzled  by  the  flood  of  light,  halted  on  the  threshold,  and 
shaded  his  eyes  to  look.  Then  those  steady  pulses 
seemed  to  stop.  She  was  there. 

Prone  on  the  couch  she  lay,  her  golden  head  abased. 
It  was  the  attitude  of  one  broken,  despairing.  She 
scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  It  was  not  from  her  that  the 
sound  of  lament  had  come  to  him.  One  would  as  soon 
have  expected  a  lily  beaten  down  by  the  storm  to  cry 
out.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  flower  cast  upon  the  earth,  she 
was  that! 

He  came  nearer  and  called  her.  He  would  not  touch 
her. 

"Fifi.     .     .     .  !" 

She  shuddered,  slowly  lifted  herself  and  turned  to 
him.  Her  eyes,  darkly  encircled,  looked  abnormally 
large.  The  rouge  which  Elisa  had  put  on  with  no  spar- 
ing hand,  mocked  the  ashen  pallor  of  one  cheek;  the 
other  —  as  she  felt  his  gaze  upon  her,  her  whole  counte- 
nance grew  scarlet  —  she  raised  her  hand  to  shelter  that 
infamous  mark  from  him.  An  overwhelming  pity 
mingled  with  his  passion. 

"May  I  sit  down  beside  you?"  he  said,  very  quietly, 
and  took  the  space  she  made  for  him,  carefully  keeping 
himself  apart  from  her. 

She  drew  herself  still  closer  to  the  head  of  the  couch. 

No,  no,  he  did  not  love  her  —  there  was  nothing  but 
compassion  in  his  eyes.  And  she  would  not  have  his 


316  PANTHER'S    CUB 

compassion.  Why  had  he  come  back?  He  had  stood 
by,  without  a  word,  and  let  them  torture  her:  had  watched 
the  infamy  of  that  blow,  and  had  not  even  a  cry  of  man- 
hood! He  was  like  all  the  rest,  slinking  back,  when  she 
was  alone.  And  for  what?  No,  he  did  not  love  her! 
She  had  no  one  in  the  world  to  love  her,  but  Fritz  — 
and  Fritz  was  cruel,  too.  .  .  .  She  turned  her  head 
away,  still  sheltering  that  burning  cheek  with  her  hand. 

As  she  moved,  the  torn  yellow  book  came  into  view 
between  them.  Desmond  took  it  up,  glanced  at  it,  and 
dropped  it  at  his  feet. 

"  I'll  run  away !    I'll  not  stay  here  any  more.     .     .     . 
Her  breast  heaved.     Bitter,  defiant  words  dropped  from 
her  lips.     "I'm  the  most  unhappy  creature  on  the  face 
of  this  earth,  but  I'll  stand  it  no  longer.     I'll  run  away!" 

"Indeed.  .  .  ."  Forcibly  he  kept  his  voice  in 
those  measured  tones.  "  And  where  will  you  go  ?  What 
will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Plenty  of  places  I  can  go  to !  .  .  .  Plenty  of  things 
I  can  do!"  she  went  on,  stung  to  a  wilder  vehemence. 
"That  much,  at  least,  I've  learned  in  this  house!  I'm 
not  a  fool.  I  know  I'm  not  ugly.  Why  shouldn't  I 
sing,  like  Mama,  or  dance,  or  act?  But  I  won't  do 
what  they  want  —  I  won't ! "  She  turned  the  pitiful 
disfigured  beauty  of  her  countenance  upon  him!  "I 
won't  marry  that  dreadful  old  man.  I  hate  him!  I 
loathe  him !  And  I  won't  be  buried  in  Germany  — 
that's  what  Fritz  wants.  I  won't  be  imprisoned  again. 
I'm  grown  up,  I'm  a  woman,  I've  got  my  life  to  live. 
Why  should  I  marry?  Why  shouldn't  I  live  my  life? 
.  .  .  I'm  not  a  fool  or  a  baby." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  317 

All  at  once  a  sob  rose,  strangling,  in  her  throat : 

"Anybody  would  be  kinder  to  me  than  they  are  here. 
I  will  live  my  life,"  she  cried.  And  a  second  dry  sob 
rent  her. 

"Panther's  Cub,"  said  the  man,  under  his  breath. 
Then  in  another  moment,  he  had  her  in  his  arms.  His 
voice,  low,  troubled,  hoarse,  was  in  her  ear. 

"Well,  I'm  better  than  Robecq!  I'm  as  good  as  the 
theatre  ...  at  least  I  can  take  you  out  of  this!" 

She  could  not  answer  him,  the  surprise  was  too  great, 
the  relief  was  too  exquisite.  But  the  tears  came  raining 
down  her  cheeks.  She  let  all  her  young  body  relax  into 
his  embrace;  it  was  a  surrender  as  complete  as  her  trust. 

His  lips  were  on  her  outraged  cheek.  He  felt  her 
tears  upon  them  with  an  indescribable  tearing  of  the 
soul. 

All  that  love  could  give  her,  she  should  have  —  "  Love, 
love!  .  .  ."  The  words  escaped  him  confusedly, 
in  the  husky  low  accents  of  his  passion.  "  Love,  lovely  — 
Beloved!"  and  "Love,"  again  he  murmured.  And  still 
his  lips  pressed.  Oh,  for  that  blow,  that  had  given  her 
to  him,  how  she  should  be  loved! 

A  moment,  in  his  headlong  impulse  toward  her,  he 
was  poised  on  the  mad  project  of  carrying  her  away 
with  him,  then  and  there.  But  he  glanced  at  her  face, 
marred,  stained  with  tears  and  smudged  with  rouge  — 
quivering,  so  tired,  so  young,  and  through  all  so  lovely 
to  him!  and  some  unknown  depths  of  tenderness  in 
his  nature  awoke. 

She  must  recover  herself,  she  must  rest,  she  must  do 
this  thing  with  due  deliberation.  He  could  not  take 


318  PANTHER'S    CUB 

advantage  of  her  desolateness,  nor  of  this  first  moment 
of  awakened  love. 

"  Can  you  trust  yourself  to  me,  then  ?  " 

Trust  him!  Her  eyes  answered  for  her.  Her  trem- 
bling, dumb  lips  —  Those  lips !  he  had  not  kissed  them 
yet.  Not  yet ! 

"Then,  listen,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands.  "I 
will  come  for  you  to-morrow.  If  I  come  for  you  to-mor- 
row, will  you  let  me  take  you  away  ?  " 

A  sigh,  an  indefinable  movement  of  yielding  toward 
him;  and  again,  voicelessly,  he  was  answered. 

"  To  come  away  with  me !  To  be  mine  —  to  let  me 
care  for  you !  To  be  my  love  for  as  long  as  you  can  love 
me,  for  as  long  as  I  can  make  you  love  me!  Fifi,  you 
understand  it  will  not  be  a  slight  and  passing  thing? 
Oh,  I  think  I  shall  want  you  —  always!  .  .  ." 


BOOK  IV 


FIFI  TELLS  HER  STORY 

FIFI  looked  round  the  room  in  which  she  found  her- 
self momentarily  alone  with  a  sense  of  awakening  from 
a  bewildered  dream  —  a  curious  sense  of  chill,  attri- 
butable to  no  salient  cause,  unless  perhaps  the  fatigue 
which  seemed  suddenly  to  have  come  upon  her,  and 
the  unexpected  dinginess  of  the  Dover  Hotel,  which  Lord 
Desmond  had  chosen  for  their  halting  place. 

This  was  their  sitting  room.  Here  they  were  to  spend 
their  first  evening  together!  A  single  electric  light,  with 
unshaded  loop,  flung  into  relief  every  prosy  detail  of  the 
surroundings:  the  huge  pattern  of  the  Morris  paper, 
the  chiffonier  with  its  cheap  veneer,  the  lopsided  sofa, 
the  armchairs  in  saddlebag,  with  their  lace  antimacas- 
sars starched  and  blue- tinted,  as  were  also  the  insuffi- 
cient curtains  that  veiled,  without  concealing,  the  green 
Venetian  blinds  of  the  bow  window. 

"What  a  horrid,  horrid  room!"  thought  the 
girl. 

The  bare  painted  boards  and  the  picturesque  simplicity 
of  the  German  wayside  Gasthof  she  had  known,  and 
found  pleasing,  on  many  a  summer  holiday  with  Fritz. 
She  had  known  also  the  cushioned  luxuriousness  of  those 
hotels  patronized  by  the  great  prima  donna.  But  this? 
This  —  she  could  find  no  word  for  it.  She  was  too  inex- 

321 


322  PANTHER'S     CUB 

perienced  in  English  travel.  To  her  Biddicombe's 
Marine  Hotel  was  merely  hideous. 

She  laid,  after  some  deliberation,  the  basket  she  had 
been  unconsciously  clutching,  behind  the  sofa,  and  loos- 
ened the  strings  of  her  motor  veil.  Then,  becoming 
more  distinctively  aware  of  the  closeness  of  the  room, 
charged  with  many  strange  and  musty  smells,  she  turned 
to  the  window.  As  she  did  so  the  sound  of  the  sea  for 
the  first  time  asserted  itself  upon  her  ears.  Hastily 
she  drew  up  the  clattering  blind  and  opened  the  window. 
The  sea !  She  could  not  see  it,  but  the  breath  of  it  dashed 
in  upon  her,  and  the  voice.  In  the  darkness,  and  across 
the  barrier  of  houses  opposite,  her  soul  seemed  to  seek 
it  and  be  sought  by  it.  Mysterious,  wide  and  free,  like 
the  new  unknown  life  that  awaited  her,  it  was  calling. 
Its  multitudinous  voices  promised:  what,  she  knew  not. 
Its  restless  waves  beckoned:  to  what  shore,  she  could 
not  guess.  Only  this  she  knew  was  to  be  hers  —  love 
and  freedom. 

Leaning  against  the  window  sill,  her  thoughts  wandered. 
Already  the  dawn  of  this  day,  when  she  had  gone  forth 
from  her  home  forever,  seemed  immensely  distant; 
already  this  irretrievable  step  seemed  to  have  cut  her  off 
completely  from  her  past  life. 

She  tried  to  recall,  in  orderly  manner,  the  events  of  the 
day;  they  slid  before  her  mind,  melting  one  into  another, 
like  the  gliding  pictures  of  a  magic-lantern  show.  .  .  . 
The  swirling  passage  through  the  veiled  loveliness  of  the 
early  morning:  from  dew-spangled  hedgerows,  still  and 
shadowing  trees,  long  vistas  of  fields  all  bathed  in  silver 
sheen  and  hung  with  mists  of  pearliness,  to  the  first  ugly 


PANTHER'S     CUB  323 

outskirts  of  great  London,  to  the  rattle,  the  sordidness, 
the  dismal  streets.  .  .  .  Lord  Desmond  had  driven 
the  car  himself.  He  had  had  very  few  words  for  her 
from  the  moment  he  had  helped  her  to  step  up  beside 
him  to  the  moment  of  their  first  halt  at  the  big  hotel, 
the  name  of  which  she  did  not  even  know.  .  .  .  There 
he  had  left  her  for  many  hours.  She  did  not  think  it 
unkind  of  him,  for  he  had  explained  to  her  as  they  went, 
why  it  was  best.  He  was  known  in  London;  she  was 
not.  It  had,  of  course,  been  impossible  for  her  to  bring 
luggage  out  of  Branksome,  as  she  stole  down  through 
the  shrubberies  to  the  corner  of  the  road  where  he  awaited 
her.  He  could  not,  however,  take  her  himself  to  shop, 
but  it  was  quite  easy  to  order  the  little  she  wanted  from 
one  of  those  big  establishments  which  provide  for  univer- 
sal wants.  "Once  in  Paris,"  he  had  said,  his  blue  eyes 
upon  her,  "you  shall  get  everything,  everything 

That  glance  of  his  was  decking  her,  as  he  spoke,  with 
the  lavishness  of  love.  Just  now  she  must  content  her- 
self with  some  little  boxful  that  would  fit  on  the  motor. 
But  she  could  get  many  things  sent  up  on  approval,  and 
amuse  herself  choosing,  for  a  couple  of  hours.  It 
would  have  to  be  at  least  a  couple  of  hours  before 
he  could  fetch  her  again,  for  he  had  much  business  to 
despatch. 

And  before  they  approached  the  great  thoroughfare, 
he  slackened  speed  and  told  her  to  put  her  veil  over  her 
face.  She  obeyed,  in  the  blind,  unquestioning  way 
with  which  she  had  followed  his  least  word  hitherto. 
She  had  wondered  at  first,  and  then  laughed  at  herself: 
she  seemed  so  safe  with  him.  But,  of  course,  till  they 


324  PANTHER'S    CUB 

were  married  (she  realized)  her  mother  might  still  inter- 
fere. Her  mother  —  or  Fritz.  .  .  . 

And,  after  all,  the  time  had  not  hung  too  heavily  upon 
her,  in  the  smart  sitting  room  in  the  grand  Hotel;  for 
it  had  all  been  rather  thrilling  —  first  the  ordering  by 
telephone,  and  then  the  choosing  of  the  pretty  things, 
of  which  a  bewildering  display  was  brought  for  inspection. 

A  pleasant  chambermaid  had  helped  her.  And  by 
and  by,  when,  after  a  lonely  meal  she  had  been  beginning 
to  turn  restlessly  about  the  room,  hearkening  to  the 
sound  of  his  step  along  the  muffled  corridor,  the  arrival 
of  three  parcels,  not  of  her  own  ordering,  proved  an 
agreeable  diversion.  A  little  dressing  case  with  gold 
fittings;  a  box  of  chocolates,  and  a  novel. 

She  was  child  enough  to  love  a  present  for  its  own 
sake  —  woman  enough  to  linger  over  what  was  to  her 
eyes  a  bridal  gift  —  schoolgirl  enough  still,  to  find  choco- 
lates and  a  novel  a  very  good  pastime.  ...  It  was 
a  gay  and  dashing  story  of  a  romance  in  a  motor  car  — 
and  she  was  plunged  in  the  second  chapter,  when  Lord 
Desmond  had  walked  in  upon  her. 

He  had  given  her  no  time  even  to  thank  him:  he  was 
bent  on  haste.  They  were  to  dine  at  Canterbury,  he 
told  her,  and  catch  the  evening  boat  for  France. 

So,  while  he  saw  her  new  little  box  taken  down,  and 
her  bag,  she  had  been  veiled  again  by  the  good-natured 
chambermaid,  had  received  back  from  her  the  precious 
basket,  and,  with  a  dream-like  feeling  strongly  upon  her 
again,  found  herself  seated  once  more  in  the  car  —  once 
more  dashing  toward  her  wonderful  future,  through 
streets  and  squares  and  desolated  suburbs,  out  into  the 


PANTHER'S    CUB  325 

green  fields  again!  This  time  a  chauffeur,  carapaced 
like  a  shining  beetle,  drove;  and  she  and  Desmond  sat 
together ! 

That  was  a  wonderful  afternoon.  After  a  while  she 
lifted  the  smothering  folds  of  tissue  before  her  face.  It 
was  against  her  instinct  to  do  anything  secret  —  and  she 
loved  to  feel  the  wind  blowing  against  her  cheeks.  The 
knowledge  of  his  presence  beside  her  was  bliss.  .  .  . 
Once  or  twice,  indeed,  she  had  a  kind  of  vague  disap- 
pointment that  he  had  not  once  held  her  to  his  heart, 
like  last  night;  that  even  now  he  should  not  fold  an  arm 
about  her  or  even  hold  her  hand.  But  she  explained  it 
to  herself,  very  sapiently :  until  they  were  married  —  and 
she  supposed,  nay,  she  felt  quite  certain  it  was  not  safe, 
that  they  should  be  married  in  England  —  until  they  were 
married,  why,  of  course.  .  .  .  That  was  why  he 
was  so  pressed  with  desire  to  get  her  across  the 
water. 

She  knew,  through  her  English  novels,  that  when 
English  people  were  engaged  to  be  married,  it  was  usual 
for  them  to  kiss  and  to  embrace;  but  she  also  knew  that 
this  was  not  the  custom  among  foreigners,  and  doubtless 
she  was  a  foreigner  —  and  that  was  why  he  was  thus 
careful  of  her  position.  .  .  . 

So  she  had  talked  to  herself,  silencing  the  little  ques- 
tioning voices  as  they  woke  within  her. 

Upon  this  point  in  her  reflection,  Lord  Desmond  entered 
the  room.  He  carried  her  new  travelling  bag  in  one  hand, 
and,  depositing  it  on  the  table,  came  over  to  her.  His 
motor  cap,  pushed  at  the  back  of  his  head,  gave  a  rakish 


326  PANTHER'S     CUB 

look  to  his  face,  that  was  quite  unusual  to  it.     There  was 
a  haggard  anxiety  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  joviality, 
likewise  singularly  foreign  to  his  usual  manner  —  "  dream- 
ing out  into  the  night?  Come  away  from  the  window. 
Why,  it  hasn't  even  a  view  of  the  sea!  Well,  this  is  a 
hole!"  he  then  continued  discontentedly,  as,  clinging 
to  his  arm,  she  turned  back  into  the  room  with  him. 
"I'm  sorry  to  have  so  mismanaged  things.  If  that  tire 
hadn't  burst,  we'd  have  caught  the  boat  right  enough; 
though  I'm  afraid  we  ran  it  rather  fine."  He  took  off 
his  cap  and  flung  it  on  the  table,  then  smiled  at  her. 
"  We  dawdled  a  bit  at  Canterbury." 

"Oh,  I  can't  be  sorry  for  it,"  she  interrupted,  "it  was 
lovely!  It  was,  oh  so — "  She  made  an  expressive  ges- 
ture with  both  hands,  in  her  impulsive,  un-English  way. 
"Oh,  that  church!  I  did  not  know  churches  over  here 
could  be  so  beautiful." 

The  man's  gaze,  as  it  rested  upon  her,  grew  more  and 
more  puzzled. 

"  That  —  church,  as  you  call  it,  is  that  what  you 
liked?" 

"  The  church  — "  She  laughed  —  her  spirits  were 
rising;  the  intoxicating  dream-feeling  was  coming  back 
upon  her  —  "  The  church,  yes,  and  the  rest.  Our  din- 
ner in  the  queer  little  inn.  And  what  you  said  to  me 
when  you  drank  my  health  .  .  .  and  what  you  said 
to  me  about  my  eyes!  And  that  once,  when  you  took 
my  hand  across  the  table,  as  the  waiter  went  out  of  the 
room." 

She  was  pulling  her  hat  and  veil  from  her  head,  as  she 


PANTHER'S    CUB  327 

spoke,  crimsoning  in  adorable  manner  under  the  loosened 
hair.  Her  eyes,  dewy  with  unshed  tears,  her  lips  all 
smiles. 

No,  he  thought  as  he  brooded  upon  her;  no,  he  did 
not  regret.  Not  for  a  moment ! 

"  You  have  spoiled  me,"  she  went  on.  It  was  absurd, 
she  had  not  found  courage  yet  to  call  him  by  his  name. 
Engaged  people  were  not  on  such  formal  terms.  He 
would  think  her  cold.  "Desmond!"  she  cried,  and  the 
effort  lent  a  loud  assurance  to  the  word,  "you  are  kind 
to  me!  I  have  never  been  spoiled  like  this  before!" 

"You  shall  always  be  spoilt  now."  He  caught  her  to 
him  as  he  spoke.  "  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  our  first  evening 
to  be  spent  in  a  sordid  place  like  this.  But  I  didn't  dare 
take  you  to  a  big  hotel,  Fifi  —  His  voice  had  sunk 
to  those  low,  husky  accents,  which  had  held  such  passion 
in  her  ears  last  night. 

"  No  ?  "  she  questioned  as  he  paused. 

"There  will  be  hue  and  cry,  you  know,"  he  went  on, 
releasing  her,  for  there  were  steps  on  the  landing  without. 

She  nodded  to  him  with  an  air  of  portentous  wisdom. 

"  Of  course,  of  course." 

Then  she  slipped  out  of  her  motor  coat  and  ran  to  the 
window. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  the  room?  One  can 
hear  the  sea." 

"To-morrow  we  shall  be  across  that  sea!"  he  said, 
his  deep  glance  following  her. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  sharply  he  turned 
and  cried: 

"Come  in!" 


328  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The  little,  shabby,  heated  German  waiter  propelled 
himself  headforemost  into  the  room,  bearing  poised  on 
one  hand  a  tea  tray,  on  the  other  a  large,  greasy,  leather- 
bound  volume,  both  of  which  he  slid  on  to  the  table 
with  the  skill  peculiar  to  his  order. 

"Will    Mister   and    Madame   kindly    write    names?" 

The  girl  came  back  with  a  spring. 

"Oh,  I  will— I  will!" 

She  had  the  book  spread  open  before  her  and  was 
plunging  the  dusty  pen  into  the  muddy  ink,  before  Lord 
Desmond  had  sufficiently  collected  his  wits  to  inter- 
vene. 

"Better  let  me,  my  dear,"  he  said,  bending  over  her. 

But  she  squared  her  elbows,  childishly  fending  him  off. 

"No,  no  — let  me!" 

Then,  with  pen  in  the  air,  she  began  to  read  out,  as 
if  nothing  could  be  of  deeper  interest  to  her: 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Altamount  Smith,  Palmerston,  Black- 
heath.  I  wonder  if  they  are  bride  and  bridegroom? 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy  Fitzroy  Hodson,  203,  Penywern 
Road,  W.  Do  you  think  they  are  bride  and  bridegroom  ?  " 

She  flourished  the  pen  and  began  to  write:  Desmond, 
reading  over  her  shoulder,  suddenly  snapped  it  from  her 
hand. 

"Get  up  — I'll  write!" 

His  voice  rang  out  harshly.  She  looked,  startled, 
half  frightened;  saw  his  frowning  face,  and  rose  without 
a  word,  biting  her  lip. 

He  took  the  seat  she  had  vacated.  With  great  care  he 
obliterated  the  couple  of  words  she  had  begun,  and 
wrote  himself.  From  where  she  stood  she  could  see  the 


PANTHER'S    CUB  329 

page  as  he  lifted  his  hands  from  it  and  dropped  the  pen. 
A  loud  involuntary  exclamation  escaped  her. 

"Oh!     .     .     ." 

He  rose  with  unnecessary  noise,  and  cast  a  single  glance 
upon  her,  warning.  She  went  then  back  to  the  window, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  the  casement  as  before, 
staring  out  into  the  night. 

The  waiter,  who  with  his  neck  craned  and  his  hope- 
less eye  fixed  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  as  etiquette 
taught  him,  stood  in  patience  till  the  Heerschaften  would 
be  pleased  to  let  him  depart  with  his  book.  He  had 
seen  many  brides  and  bridegrooms,  German  and  English : 
and  their  skirmishes  had  ceased  to  interest  him. 

Desmond  blotted  the  inscription  with  the  much-used 
square  of  blotting  paper  and  handed  back  the  folio. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  alien  and  fled  from  the 
room. 

At  the  closing  of  the  door,  Fifi  wheeled  from  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Why  did  you  write  that  ?  We  are  not  Mr.  and  Mra. 
Dennis  Brown!" 

Her  voice  shook. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  returned,  "why,  you  made  my 
hair  stand  on  end  —  Miss  Fifi  —  Mercifully  I  caught 
you  at  the  Fifi.  Miss  Fifi  Lovinska,  no  doubt.  And 
underneath,  no  doubt  also,  you'd  have  written:  Lord 
Desmond  Brooke." 

"  Of  course  —  Why  not  ?  " 

Her  cheeks  were  flaming. 

"Well,  in  England,"  said  the  man,  and  hardly  knew 
that  a  note  almost  of  anger  had  crept  into  his  voice, 


330  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"  people  don't  give  themselves  away  like  that  —  at  least 
not  the  class  of  people  I  belong  to." 

"But  it  isn't,"  she  argued,  feeling  that  she  must  argue 
or  she  might  be  silly  enough  to  burst  into  tears,  "  it  isn't 
as  if  you  could  keep  it  a  secret.  All  the  world  is  bound 
to  know  —  All  the  world,  my  people,  your  people  in  the 
course  of  the  next  two  days,  that  I,  Fifi  Lovinska,  and 
you,  Lord  Desmond  Brooke,  have  run  away  together!" 

He  stared  at  her  as  if  he  were  hardly  sure  of  her  mean- 
ing; and  his  puzzled  expression  became  intensified  almost 
to  trouble. 

She  went  to  the  tray,  and,  with  a  slightly  trembling  hand, 
began  to  pour  herself  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  Oh,  dear,  I'm  so  thirsty !  You  would  make  me  drink 
that  glass  of  champagne,  at  Canterbury,  and  I  hate  it." 

As  she  spoke  she  found  his  arm  round  her  again;  and 
happiness  once  more  stole  over  her  inarticulate  sense 
of  discomfort. 

"It  was  to  toast  our  life  together,"  he  pleaded,  with 
his  lips  upon  her  hair. 

With  an  ineffable  content  upon  her,  she  caressingly 
rubbed  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  sipping  her  vile 
tea.  Suddenly  she  felt  him  shake  a  little,  and  she  glanced 
up. 

"  Why  are  you  laughing  ?  " 

"Because  you  are  such  a  true  Panther's  Cub,"  he 
told  her. 

She  gave  a  faint  cry,  and  started  from  him,  putting 
down  her  cup. 

"  Oh,  what  a  horrid  name ! " 

But  he  drew  her  back: 


PANTHER'S    CUB  331 

"Don't  move!  Are  we  not  well  like  this?  You  see, 
Fifi,  you've  just  taught  me  a  lesson  in  philosophy.  Why 
should  one  ever  hide  anything  one  has  made  up  one's 
mind  to  do  ?  .  .  .  You  know,  my  beauty  —  what 
delicious  hair  you  have  —  you  know  that  I  was  beginning 
to  have  almost  a  kind  of  remorse ! " 

She  turned  her  head  lazily,  under  his  caress : 

"Why?"  she  murmured.  He  was  right,  she  was 
very  well  like  this. 

"Why?"  he  echoed.  "Because  you  are  so  young 
still." 

"  Not  too  young  for  love." 

And,  at  that,  she  smiled  broadly,  and  then  hid  her 
face,  because  of  the  boldness  of  her  speech : 

He  repeated  the  words  after  her  with  a  mingled  ecstasy 
and  pain  in  his  voice : 

"Not  too  young  for  love.     .     .!    Ah,  Fifi,  and  I  was 
wondering  all  day  whether  I  should  not  have  done  better 
to  leave  you  to  your  mother's  matrimonial  projects  — 
such  as  they  were." 

She  disengaged  herself,  with  that  odd  little  air  of  wis- 
dom that  she  had  adopted  since  the  great  event. 

"You'd  better  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  began  paren- 
thetically; and  then,  with  a  sudden,  half-mocking,  half- 
shy  glance  from  lustrous  golden-hazel  eyes:  "And,  if 
I  happen  to  prefer  our  matrimonial  projects,  what  then, 
sir  ?  "  She  was  offering  the  cup,  as  she  spoke. 

"  Our  —  "  He  checked  himself  upon  that  single  sharp 
word. 

"  Such  as  it  is  — "  She  mimicked  his  phrase  with  a 
gay  laugh. 


332  PANTHER'S    CUB 

Laughter  was  upon  him  too  as  he  took  the  cup. 

"Such  as  it  is  — "  There  was  relief  in  his  air,  a  new 
ease  in  his  tone.  "Quite  so.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown, 
Fifi?" 

A  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  bending  to  kiss  her. 
But  another  swift  change  of  mood  came  upon  him.  He 
frowned,  took  a  step  away  and  laid  down  his  cup. 

"Don't  you  like  your  tea?"  said  the  girl  anxiously. 
"Oughtn't  I  to  have  put  in  the  sugar?  Fritz  always 
says  I'll  never  know  how  to  manage  a  house.  But  I'm 
going  to  learn  from  you  when  we  are  married  — 
When " 

Her  eyes  were  cast  down  as  she  made  her  little  humble 
speech,  and  she  did  not  see  his  sudden  start  nor  the  wild 
glance  he  flung  at  her.  She  went  on,  halting  prettily 
upon  coquettishness :  "  When  I'm  Mrs.  Brown." 

The  man  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  Again 
a  kind  of  wonder  and  trouble  fought  in  his  countenance 
with  what  was  anger,  almost  disgust.  Then,  as  if  with 
an  effort,  he  flung  these  conflicting  feelings  from  him, 
and,  coming  up  to  her  quickly,  caught  her  by  both  hands. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  we  are  neither  of  us  very  good,  are  we  ?  " 

Pain  was  piercing  through  the  renewed  ardour  of  his 
voice.  Fifi  dropped  her  head.  She  could  not  hide  the 
torturing  crimson  that  rushed  into  her  face. 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  she  faltered.  "  I  think  you 
are  good." 

"Alas!"  he  went  on,  the  pain  growing  deeper  in  his 
accents,  and  a  new  note,  that  of  tenderness,  gathering 
to  it.  "  We  have  both  done  those  things  which  we  ought 
not  to  have  done,  have  we  not  ?  " 


PANTHER'S    CUB  333 

She  winced,  and  it  hurt  him  to  see  her  distress.  He 
went  on  hurriedly: 

"We  are  not  exactly  being  good  now,  are  we,  sweet- 
heart?" 

"You  mean,"  she  said  faintly,  "because  we've  run 
away  ?  " 

"I  mean  .  .  .  because  we've  run  away.  Well, 
you've  taught  me  a  lesson  just  now,  as  I  told  you.  And 
you  need  not  rub  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  hypocrisy 
into  me  any  more.  You  are  just  Fifi  —  the  Panther's 
Cub  ...  an  untamed  thing  that  cannot  lie  ... 
and  I  am  just  Desmond  Brooke  who  loves  you!  Kiss 
me  and  tell  me  —  is  not  that  the  way  between  us  ?  " 

But,  with  her  young  sunburnt  hands  pressed  against 
his  shoulders,  she  held  him  from  her.  And  still  with 
bent  head,  speaking  with  difficulty: 

"I  want  to  be  truthful,"  she  murmured,  then  paused. 
"You  said  .  .  ." 

Again  speech  became  too  difficult.  But  yet  she  was 
determined ;  and,  lifting  her  lovely  face,  crimsoned : 

"  It  is  true,"  she  blurted  out,  "  I  have  not  always  done 
what  is  right." 

"Hush,  hush,  for  Heaven's  sake!  We'll  take  each 
other  as  we  are.  Hush!  Oh,  Fifi,  what  does  it  matter? 
Wild  things  of  the  woods  mate  where  they  please  and  ask 
no  sanction.  We'll  go  away  together,  you  and  I  —  How 
you  look  at  me,  you  untamed  thing!  I  don't  want  to 
tame  you,  Fifi.  It  is  you  who  shall  teach  me  freedom." 

Her  eyes  were  indeed  fixed  upon  his  face  with  a  dilat- 
ing intensity.  Livid,  startled,  she  hung  on  his  words! 
Could  he  have  but  guessed,  it,  the  fascination  that  held 


334  PANTHER'S    CUB 

her  was  as  much  that  of  a  terrifying  mystery  as  of  a  pas- 
sion shared !  He  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  now : 

"  How  beautiful  you  are !  Ah,  I  was  dead  ...  I 
am  alive  again!  I  am  alive,  Fifi!  Some  of  your  quick 
blood  has  got  into  my  veins.  What  indeed  should  you 
want  with  wine?  You  are  intoxication  in  yourself. 
Oh,  if  I  were  a  rich  man,  how  I  would  set  off  your  beauty! 
You  should  have  a  crown  of  diamonds  to  shine  on  your 
hair;  diamonds  to  run  like  a  fire  round  your  throat  — 
your  beautiful  throat.  Fifi  .  .  .  kiss  me!" 

In  her  wide  eyes  the  terror  had  been  growing.  She 
gave  a  cry  —  even  such  a  cry  as  that  which  had  pierced 
his  ears  last  night,  in  the  marble  dining  hall. 

"Let  me  go!  You  frighten  me!"  She  tore  herself 
from  his  slackening  grasp  and  ran  from  him  to  a  corner 
of  the  room,  cowering.  "I  want  to  go  home!  I  want 
Fritz!"  she  moaned,  and  then  burst  into  an  agony  of 
sobs. 

"Fifi  .  .!"  He  stood  blasted.  Then,  in  a  com- 
pletely altered  voice:  "Fifi  .  .!"  he  cried  again  and 
went  halfway  across  the  room  toward  her.  He  stopped 
and  stared  at  her  as  she  clung,  sobbing,  to  the  wall.  And 
at  last,  speaking  as  if  to  a  child:  "Fifi  .  .  ."  he 
repeated. 

At  last  she  turned  her  face.  The  tears  were  stream- 
ing down  it. 

" Oh,  Lord  Desmond.     .     .     !" 

It  was  more  piteous  to  his  sight  even  than  that 
berouged,  stricken  visage  of  last  night! 

"For  God's  sake!"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't  cry  like 
that!  What  is  it?" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  335 

She  drew  back  closer  to  the  wall. 

"You've  frightened  me!" 

"  I  don't  frighten  you     .     .     .     now  ?  " 

His  own  voice  shook.  He  came  closer,  hesitating; 
took  her  hand  with  an  infinite  gentleness. 

"  I  don't  frighten  you  now  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"No,"  she  said,  on  the  catch  of  a  sob,  "not  now." 

She  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the  sofa,  to  press  her 
down  upon  it;  then  he  stood  back  from  her. 

"Will  you  try  and  tell  me  why  I  frightened 
you?" 

His  manner  was  still  painstakingly  gentle;  still  the 
manner  a  man  would  use  to  a  terrified  child.  She  broke 
into  a  passion  of  weeping  again,  at  the  recollection. 

"  You  were  so  strange  —  I  had  never  seen  you  look 
like  that  —  oh,  you  looked  at  me  —  your  eyes  .  . !  You 
spoke  —  you  were  like  the  Baron ! " 

"The  Baron!"  he  cried  loudly. 

"Yes,"  she  shuddered.  "Last  night  .  .  .  when 
he  wanted  —  to  kiss  me ! " 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  dusty  sofa  cushions.  Des- 
mond stood  rigid,  convicted.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
In  a  smothered  voice,  scarcely  raising  her  head,  at  length 
she  spoke: 

"  Are  you  angry  ?  " 

Harshly,  he  questioned  in  his  turn : 

"  Why  did  you  come  away  with  me  ?  " 

She  dropped  her  head  again. 

"I — you  were  so  different  from  the  others — " 
She  was  shaken  by  a  great  sigh.  "  I  felt  so  safe  with  you !  '* 

Once  more  the  convicted  silence ! 


336  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Well,  there's  no  harm  done,"  he  cried  suddenly. 
"I  will  take  you  back." 

She  started,  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

"Take  me  back!"  she  echoed,  pitifully. 

He  bent  to  her. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  back  ?  " 

Biting  her  quivering  lip  to  keep  back  the  sobs,  she 
shook  her  head. 

"What  then?"  he  asked,  and  the  impatience  of  an 
extreme  pain  was  in  his  tones.  Helplessly  she  burst 
out  crying  once  more. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me !  You  are  not  like  the  Baron. 
I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  thought  it.  Don't  take 
me  back,  I  will  try.  ...  I  will  try  —  I  will  be  a 
good  wife  to  you." 

The  man  took  two  steps  back  as  if  struck  by  an  invis- 
ible hand.  Then,  coming  forward  again,  he  took  her 
head  between  both  his  hands  —  miserably  conscious  of 
her  wet  burning  cheeks  against  his  palms  —  and  looked 
piercingly  into  her  eyes ;  looked  until  her  plaintive,  appeal- 
ing, fearful  gaze  wavered  and  fell  before  him.  Releas- 
ing her  then,  he  straightened  himself  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"  You  are  either  the  greatest  actress  on  earth  or  • 

Springing  to  her  feet,  she  interrupted  him,  stung  all 
at  once  to  a  sudden  anger! 

"Or     .     .     .    what?" 

"  Or  —  shooting's  too  good  for  me ! " 

The  words  came  out  with  almost  a  groan.  Flinging 
himself  into  a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Her  tears  had  dried;  a  strange  coldness  had  come  upon 


PANTHER'S     CUB  337 

her.  Her  womanhood  was  wakening  to  some  indefin- 
able horror. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  slowly.  She  let  her- 
self sink  on  the  sofa  again  and  shivered  slightly.  "  Lord 
Desmond  .  .  ." 

He  dropped  his  hands,  without  turning  his  head  to 
look  at  her. 

"Well?" 

"  Perhaps  —  '  she  spoke  with  difficulty,  as  if  every 
word  hurt  her  —  "  perhaps  you  had  better  take  me  back 
after  all." 

A  moment  he  was  silent.  Then,  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  decision,  he  got  up,  dragged  his  chair  close  to 
the  sofa  and  sat  down  again,  facing  her.  He  had  regained 
his  self-control;  but  behind,  there  was  a  tenseness  of 
extreme  purpose,  extreme  resolve.  For  a  little  while, 
he  fixed  her  with  a  gaze  now  almost  relentless  in  its 
keenness.  Then  abruptly: 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  answered,  wondering,  timid,  falling  back  into 
childishness  under  his  masterful  bearing: 

"  Twenty  one  —  just." 

He  repeated  her  answer  as  if  to  himself:  "Twenty- 
one  —  just." 

Nervously  she  added : 

"Mama  did  not  want  me  to  say  so.  You  know  she 
kept  me  at  school  .  .  ." 

"All  the  time?" 

"  Oh  —  except  during  the  holidays." 

"Ah,  the  holidays.  Did  you  always  go  home,  for  the 
holidays?" 


338  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"  Not  home  —  At  least  ...  we  had  no  home. 
But  Fritz  used  to  take  me  away  somewhere,  always. 
Sometimes  I  was  with  Mama.  But  if  not,  with 
Fritz." 

"  Fritz  —  that's  the  old  man  ?     The  musician  ?  " 

"He's  Mama's  repetitor.  He's  been  very  good  to 
me  always."  She  hardly  knew  why  her  heart  turned 
to  the  old  tyrant  just  now,  with  such  a  rush  —  a  rush 
of  longing  that  was  all  so  strange,  so  bewildering.  She 
wished  Fritz  were  here.  "  He's  always  been  good  to  me," 
she  went  on;  and  her  voice  trembled  to  the  memory  of 
her  sobs.  "  I've  been  always  so  bad  to  him." 

"How  long  have  you  been  back  with  your  mother?" 

"Only  since  Easter."  Her  dazed  submissiveness  sud- 
denly failed  her.  "  Why  do  you  ask  all  these  questions  ?  " 
she  exclaimed  passionately.  Who  was  this  man  —  no 
longer  lover  and  bridegroom?  What  did  he  want  with 
her  with  this  probing,  with  these  eyes  that  pierced  and 
sought  into  her  very  soul  ? 

A  quick  flash  came  and  was  gone  in  his  unsparing 
gaze. 

"  Because  I  must  know  —  all." 

All  at  once  she  understood.  All  that  was  puzzling 
and  torturing  became  clear  to  her,  clear  with  a  great 
terror.  As  one  groping  in  a  dangerous  mountain  path, 
blinded  by  mist,  may  see  the  chasm  at  his  feet  under  a 
sudden  blast  of  wind,  she  understood. 

A  kind  of  pity  came  over  his  face.     His  eyes  softened. 

"You  needn't  answer,  if  you  don't  like." 

But  something  rose  within  her,  intrinsic  frankness, 
pushing  her  to  the  truth.  Reservation,  or  deceit,  was 


PANTHER'S    CUB  339 

not  of  her.  She  rejected  it,  less  by  virtue  than  by  a  neces- 
sity of  her  nature. 

"  No,  I  will  answer  — "  She  paused  and  gathered  her 
bravery;  then,  whitening  as  she  spoke,  went  on:  "Ask 
what  you  like." 

"Your  mother  sent  for  you,  last  Easter?"  His  tone 
was  now  gentle;  less  that  of  the  cross-examiner,  more 
that  of  the  confessor;  less  that  of  one  who  wants  to  entrap 
an  admission  than  that  of  one  who  wants  to  help  the  dif- 
ficult utterance  of  the  truth. 

"  She  would  have  sent  me  away,  after  a  week.  It  was 
the  Baron  made  her  keep  me." 

"  Did  you  know  why,  then  ?  " 

"No,  indeed!"  she  cried  hurriedly.  "I  only  thought 
it  was  fun  to  be  out  of  prison." 

"  So  you  went  to  Vienna." 

"  Yes  —  and  then  we  met  you." 

He  rose  and  took  a  couple  of  slow  turns,  up  and  down 
the  room.  Apprehensively  she  watched  him.  Oh,  that 
he  would  ask  and  be  done  with  it!  Once  or  twice  she 
hesitated  on  speech,  but  checked  herself.  Courage 
failed  her  to  volunteer  her  shameful  confession.  Paus- 
ing at  last  by  the  chair,  one  knee  upon  it,  he  looked  down 
upon  her.  .  .  .  Again,  again,  those  eyes  of  com- 
pelling demand ! 

"These  three  months,  then,  you  have  seen  all  your 
mother's  friends;  been  present  at  her  parties;  lived  the 
life  she  lives  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  slowly.  Then,  with  a 
flash  of  resentment;  "You  ought  to  know:  you've  been 
to  nearly  all  of  them  yourself." 


340  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"I  saw  you  fall  into  Miss  Maud  Mayall's  arms,  last 
week  —  What  do  you  and  she  talk  about,  when  you  are 
together  ?  " 

The  question  was  abrupt.  To  her  it  seemed  offensively 
pointless. 

"  Lots  of  things,"  she  replied  sullenly. 

"For  instance?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  growing  defiance. 

"  Oh  —  Shakespeare's  heroines,  and  music,  and  books." 

"Books!"  he  echoed  sharply.  "Like  that  French 
book  that  was  beside  you  on  the  sofa,  last  night  ?  " 

"  No  — "  she  flung  the  denial  angrily  at  him.  Then 
she  drooped  her  head  and  the  blood  rushed  into  her  face. 
*'  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  looked  into  that  book.  Fritz 
forbade  me." 

"  But  it  was  so  amusing  ?  "  His  voice  was  insinuating, 
while  his  eyes  remained  keen  as  a  knife-blade.  "You 
wanted  to  go  on,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  find  out  why  he  did  not  want  me  to  read 
it." 

"And  did  you  find  out?" 

"No  — "  she  blurted  out,  irritably.  "I  couldn't  make 
any  sense  out  of  it:  it  was  all  so  silly." 

He  laughed  abruptly;  then  checked  himself  as  sud- 
denly; sat  down  and  pondered  a  moment. 

"  And  now  I  know  all  your  life,  do  I  ?  " 

The  question  was  slow,  weighted  with  importance. 
She  stared,  with  parted  lips,  as  if  she  could  not  detach 
her  frightened  eyes  from  his  face.  He  could  see  an 
agonized  pulse  beating  in  her  throat.  He  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  341 

"Fifi,  there  was  something  you  were  going  to  tell  me, 
just  now,  when  I  stopped  you  — "  She  shifted  further 
from  him,  her  gaze  still  fixed  on  his  face.  "When  you 
said  you  had  not  always  .  .  ."  He  paused,  his 
voice  grew  husky,  "always  been  good,  what  did  you  mean 
by  that?"  Then,  almost  roughly,  stabbed  by  the  sight 
of  her  misery:  "Don't  tell  me,"  he  said  once  more, 
"  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"I  will  tell  you  —  I'd  rather."  The  words  leaped 
bravely,  though  she  twisted  her  interlaced  fingers.  "It 
was  something  that  happened  — something " 

"  At  Como  ?"  He  was  trying  to  help  her  out,  but  she 
winced. 

"  Yes  —  when  I  was  eighteen.  Mama  took  me  away 
that  summer  for  the  holidays.  She  was  very  good  to- 
me that  summer,  Mama.  She  had  been  ill.  She  was 
quite  gentle.  She  used  to  say  it  was  nice  to  have  a  daugh- 
ter. That  was  at  the  beginning." 

The  words  were  wrung  from  her  in  jerks,  as  with  each 
spasm  of  a  breath  shortened  by  the  quick  beating  of  her 
heart. 

"  That  was  at  the  beginning  —  and  then  ?  " 

He  felt  he  was  cruel  —  but  he  had  to  be  cruel. 

"Then  Mama  got  better,  and  then  she  did  not  want 
me  any  more.  She  used  to  go  away,  on  picnics  and  things, 
and  leave  me  behind.  There  was  an  English  family  in 
the  hotel.  I  got  into  the  way  of  going  about  with  the 
girls,  and  playing  tennis  —  and  there  was  a  young  man 
with  them,  their  brother.  He  was  at  school,  at  Oxford." 

Desmond  over  the  turmoil  of  his  feelings  had  a  faint 
smile. 


342  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"  An  undergraduate,  I  suppose.     Well,  Fifi  ?  " 

"  One  day  they  were  all  away,  even  Fritz.  I  was  alone. 
It  was  so  dull."  She  faltered  and  stopped.  Then: 
"  He  asked  me  to  go  on  the  lake  with  him,"  she  whispered. 

"  The  Oxford  young  man  —  this  Adolphus  Went- 
worth?" 

A  little  indignant  cry  escaped  her.  Reproach  and  anger 
leaped  into  her  glance.  Then  she  drooped  her  head1- 

"You  know  all  about  it,"  she  said  dully.  "I  knew 
you  knew  —  why  must  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"Because,"  he  said,  and  sitting  down  before  her  once 
more,  quickly  took  her  cold  hands  into  his,  gave  them 
one  pressure  and  released  them,  "because,  Fifi,  I  will 
know  nothing,  except  what  you  tell  me.  You  went  with 
him  that  day " 

Dumbly  she  nodded. 

"  Just  you  and  he,  alone  ?  " 

She  nodded  again:  "Just  he  and  I  alone."  Then, 
in  a  torrent  of  words,  her  confession  escaped  from  her 
overcharged  heart. 

They  had  had  chocolate  at  the  town  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lake.  And  there  had  come  a  storm,  and  the 
boat  could  not  go  back.  The  steamers  even  would  not 
go.  No  one  would  take  them.  "And  we  could  not  get 
a  carriage  to  take  us  round,  and  so  we  walked.  We 
walked  till  I  dropped.  And  it  was  quite  late  at  night. 
At  last  we  got  a  cart  and  we  did  not  get  back  to  the  Hotel 
till  four  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  all  so 
dreadful!"  She  covered  her  hot  face  with  her  hand. 

"They  were  all  up.  They  said  they  thought  we  must 
be  drowned.  Nobody  was  a  bit  glad  we  were  alive. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  343 

.  .  .  And  Mama  said  I  was  disgraced!"  She  was 
caught  by  a  sob;  but,  with  the  impulse  that  leads  one 
at  certain  moments  of  intensity  to  pile  up  pain  deliber- 
ately: "Next  day,"  she  went  on,  "the  English  girl  and 
her  mother  cut  me ! " 

Amazedly,  she  felt  his  hands  fold  over  hers  again. 
How  cold  they  both  were ! 

"And  the  young  man,  Fifi?  " 

"He  left  by  the  next  boat,"  she  said  bravely,  but  had 
not  the  courage  to  lift  her  eyes.  Would  she  ever  have 
the  courage  to  lift  them  to  his  face  again  ? 

"Fifi,  when  you  and  that  young  fool  were  alone,  that 
night  —  Fifi,  I  must  have  the  truth!" 

He  felt  her  hands  twist  in  his. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  '  passionately  she  flung  away  the  last 
reserve,  the  last  shred  between  herself  and  what  she 
conceived  her  shame.  "He  tried  to  kiss  me,  and  was 
horrible!  I  never  told  any  one  but  Fritz,  and  Fritz  said 
—  he  said  .  .  ."  her  voice  trailed  away  pitifully, 
"he  said  that  it  was  all  my  own  fault;  that  no  good  girl 
would  have  gone  away  like  that  with  a  man  who  was  not 
her  betrothed ! " 

The  clasp  of  his  cold  fingers  suddenly  relaxed.  The 
man  rose.  Looking  down  upon  her  he  was  shaken  by 
a  sudden  tender  laugh.  But  even  as  he  laughed,  tears 
rose  to  his  eyes;  and,  hastily  he  went  to  the  open  window, 
struggling  with  the  tide  of  exquisite  emotion  that  was 
sweeping  over  him. 

Desolately  she  watched  him  leave  her.  Then,  as  he 
did  not  come  back  to  her,  she  said  at  length,  with  a  long 
forlorn  sigh : 


344  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"  I  suppose  it  makes  a  great  difference  —  now  you 
know.  .  .  ." 

He  started.    Swiftly  he  was  by  her  side  again : 

"A  great  difference!"  he  cried.  "All  the  difference 
in  the  world ! " 

His  tone  was  joyous,  his  blue  eye  on  fire.  She  could 
not  understand  what  had  come  over  him.  But  she  could 
not  but  see  that  he  was  putting  great  force  upon  himself, 
to  keep  his  self-control. 

"Give  me  your  hands,  Fifi  .  .  .  Fifi!  pshaw! 
what  is  your  real  name  ?  " 

"Virginia.     .     .     ." 

"Virginia!"  he  cried.  And  then  again,  with  a  change 
of  tone  that  was  like  a  caress:  "Virginia."  He  paused 
a  while,  sitting  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  holding  her  hand, 
his  own  clasp  growing  warm  again,  warm  and  close. 
Comfort  slid  from  it  all  unawares  into  her  veins.  "Vir- 
ginia —  you  told  me  a  little  while  ago,  that  you  had  felt 
safe  with  me.  You  are  safe." 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  How  had  she  ever  doubted 
him?  His  blue  eyes  held  a  depth  of  unimaginable  ten- 
derness and  loyalty,  something  that  in  her  innocence  she 
could  not  fathom,  but  which,  unerringly,  she  felt. 

"I  know." 

"I'm  not  like     .     .     .     the  Baron  de  Robecq  now?" 

"  No  —  oh,  no !     Oh,  Lord  Desmond,  you  never  were ! " 

He  lifted  the  hand  he  held  to  his  lips : 

"  Ah  —  Fifi  —  ah,  Virginia.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  poor 
child." 

His  voice  broke  upon  tenderness;  he  rose,  rang  the 
bell  and  coming  back  to  the  table  leaned  with  one  hand 


PANTHER'S     CUB  345 

upon  it,  his  eyes  on  that  cup  of  untasted  tea  she  had  pre- 
pared for  him.  The  girl  sat  on,  too  bewildered  by  the 
conflicting  emotions  of  the  hour  to  be  able  to  think  reason- 
ably. He  had  flung  her  from  utter  confidence  to  blank 
apprehension;  from  heights  of  bliss  to  deeps  of  misery; 
had  tortured,  had  probed;  had  shown  himself  relentless, 
an  inquisitor  —  and  now,  though  he  had  spoken  no  word 
of  condonement,  even  of  forgiveness,  a  peace  and  joy 
deeper  than  anything  she  had  ever  felt,  had  come  upon 
her.  She  only  knew  one  thing:  she  loved  him;  he  was 
her  master;  she  would  follow  him  to  the  end  of  the  earth 
because  she  trusted  him ! 

Like  the  savour  from  trampled  herbs  and  exquisite 
broken  flowers,  bruised  before  the  altar,  love  and  trust 
alone  rose  out  of  her  pain. 

With  a  movement,  as  if  wakened  from  abstraction,  he 
stretched  his  hand  for  the  cup. 

"Oh,"   she  cried   involuntarily,   "it  must  be  cold!" 

As  he  paused,  smiling,  to  look  at  her,  over  the  rim, 
the  waiter  entered,  headlong  as  before,  upon  his 
knock. 

"Yes,    sir?"     The   words    shot   from   the   threshold. 

"  Kindly  ask  the  landlady  to  be  so  good  as  to  come  to 
me  .  .  .  immediately." 

The  dingy  creature  arrested  himself  upon  the  normal 
impulse  of  subserviency.  This  was  not  a  customary 
order.  His  blank  eyes,  frantically  fixed  on  distant 
arrears  of  work,  focussed  themselves  with  difficulty  on 
the  speaker's  face. 

"  Mrs.  Biddicombe,  sir  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Biddicombe,  if  you  please." 


346  PANTHER'S     CUB 

The  waiter's  mind  focussed  itself  a  second  in  its  turn  — 
and  promptly  gave  up  the  problem. 

"  Yes,  sir  —  ver'  well,  sir  —  immediately." 

His  small,  harassed  body  was  already  outside  the  room, 
and  the  door  closed  upon  the  last  words. 

Then  Desmond  lifted  the  cup  again  to  his  lips,  looked 
across  it  at  Virginia,  and  drank  the  cold  tea. 

"There  was  not  too  much  sugar  in  it,"  he  said,  laying 
the  empty  cup  on  the  table.  "  It  was  excellent  —  let 
Fritz  say  what  he  likes,  my  wife  will  keep  house  per- 
fectly for  me ! " 

He  spoke  the  words  in  a  deliberately  airy  voice;  but 
he  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  the  girl  closed  her  eyes  over 
a  sudden  sense  of  happiness  almost  beyond  endurance. 


THE  proprietress  of  Biddicombe's  Marine  Hotel 
closed  the  door  behind  her  with  genteel  precision;  and 
advancing  within  a  few  paces  of  the  couple,  stood  eyeing 
them  with  suspicion  and  some  loftiness.  She  was  a  stout, 
elderly  lady,  whose  large  brooch,  black-laced  cap  with 
mauve  ribbons,  and  gray  side-curls  proclaimed  the 
embodiment  of  middle-Victorian  respectability. 

"  Good  evening  —  Mrs.  Brown  —  Good  evening  — 
Mr.  Brown."  She  inclined  her  head  in  turn  to  each. 
"  Do  I  understand  that  you  expressed  a  wish  for  an  inter- 
view with  me  —  Mr.  Brown  ?" 

"Good  evening,"  responded  Lord  Desmond.  He  felt 
absurdly  nervous  under  the  stern  eye  that  seemed  to 
express  such  doubt  of  him.  "  Will  you  sit  down  ?  " 

He  pushed  the  chair  slightly  toward  her.  She  received 
this  attention  with  an  acid  titter,  and  a  formal  inclina- 
tion from  the  waist. 

"No,  thank  you  —  Mr.  Brown.  When  you  sent  for 
me,  I  was  about  to  ask  for  an  interview  myself." 

Again  she  had  a  sound  of  faint  and  bitter  mirth. 

"Indeed  ?"  said  he. 

He  tried  to  look  only  politely  interested.  Bolt  upright 
on  the  sofa,  Virginia  Lovinska  sat  staring  with  wide,  tired 
eyes.  Mrs.  Biddicombe  broke  into  a  sudden  glibness. 

347 


348  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"Yes  —  Mr.  Brown,  I  regret  to  say  that  has  there 
been  a  mistake  about  the  rooms.  They  were  engaged 
previously.  It  was  an  error  of  the  office,  sir.  If  you'll 
excuse  the  liberty  .  .  .  Mr.  Brown,  I  think  you  and 
your,  your  lady,  Mr.  Brown,  would  do  better  at  the 
Metropole,  or  some  similar  establishment." 

The  unexpected  appearance  of  an  "h"  at  the  beginning 
of  the  last  word  seemed  to  lend  it  an  awful  significance. 
As  she  pronounced  it,  Mrs.  Biddicombe's  cold  gaze  swept 
Fifi's  ringless  bare  hands,  and  was  averted  with  an  audible 
sniff.  As  the  bare  meaning  of  this  speech  penetrated  to 
Fifi's  dazed  brain,  she  sprang  up  with  an  outcry  of  dismay. 

"But  we  can't  go  to  the  Metropole!  And,  oh,  I'm  so 
tired." 

"Hush!"  said  Desmond  under  his  breath. 

The  landlady  withered  him  with  one  glance  and 
then  turned  to  survey  the  girl;  then,  unexpectedly,  her 
face  softened. 

"Oh,  dear  —  yes,  you  do  look  tired!  She  does  look 
tired  —  Mr.  Brown,  and  she's  so  young!" 

There  was  a  world  of  feminine  reproach  in  her  tones. 
Quickly  the  man  seized  his  opportunity. 

"There  has  been  a  mistake  altogether.  I  want  to 
leave  this  young  lady  in  your  charge." 

"In  my  charge,  sir?"  echoed  Mrs.  Biddicombe,  sur- 
prised out  of  all  her  defences. 

Without  paying  any  attention  to  Fifi's  long-drawn, 
disconsolate  "Oh,"  Desmond  proceeded: 

"She  is  very  tired  —  much  too  tired  to  go  out  again 
to-night.  You're  a  good  kind  woman,  I  can  see  that 
in  your  face!" 


PANTHER'S    CUB  349 

"Oh  —  Mr.  Brown  .  .!"  Mrs.  Biddicombe  was 
not  quite  sure  that  she  appreciated  the  familiarity  of 
the  compliment;  but  his  earnestness  bore  her  down. 

"A  good,  kind,  motherly  woman,"  he  repeated,  with 
feeling  in  his  voice.  "Take  care  of  her,  to-night.  I'll 
look  for  lodgings  for  myself  elsewhere.  I  shouldn't 
feel  happy  about  her,  if  I  didn't  know  that  I  was  leaving 
her,  safe,  with  some  one  like  you." 

"Oh     ...     Mr.  Br " 

He  raised  his  hand  to  check  her,  unable  to  bear  the 
sound  of  that  appellation  again. 

"I'm  not  Mr.  Brown.  She's  not  Mrs.  Brown.  This 
is  Miss  Lovinska,  and  I  am  Lord  Desmond  Brooke.*' 

Virginia  gave  another  cry,  this  time  of  astonishment. 
She  could  not,  for  the  life  of  her,  make  out  the  meaning 
of  his  changeful  purpose.  But  her  voice  was  lost  in 
the  landlady's  ejaculation.  Unctuously,  as  became  the 
situation,  if  still  reprobatively,  the  latter  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  my  lord!" 

"  She's  run  away  from  home,"  went  on  the  distinguished 
guest  of  Biddicombe's  rapidly,  "  because  she  was  unhappy. 
Because  they  wanted  to  marry  her  to  —  to  some  one  else, 
some  one  she  could  not  love.  I'm  —  I'm,"  he  hesi- 
tated and  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "I'm 
bound  to  see  that  she  comes  to  no  harm,  Mrs.  Biddi- 
combe. Do  you  understand  me?  Do  you  understand 
why  I  brought  her  to  your  house  ?" 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  ran  a  fat  wrinkled  hand  doubtfully 
up  and  down  one  side  of  her  black  satin  apron : 

"I  am  .  .  .  beginning  to  understand,"  she  con- 
ceded slowly.  "At  least  I  think  so,  my  lord." 


350  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Then  you  will  take  care  of  her?"  said  Desmond,  and 
smiled. 

All  at  once  the  kindness  and  motherly  feeling  which  he 
had  diagnosed  in  her,  overflowed  in  the  good  woman. 

"I  will,  my  lord  — "  No  doubt  it  was  an  unwonted 
and  pleasurable  sensation  to  be  called  upon  to  oblige  a 
nobleman.  She  waddled  across  to  Fifi,  who  sat  dis- 
consolately on  the  side  of  the  table.  "I  will,  my  dear." 
She  patted  the  unringed  hand.  "I  will  take  care  of  you, 
excuse  the  liberty,  as  if  you  was  my  own." 

Fifi  drew  her  hand  away,  a  little  peevishly. 

"I  don't  want  any  looking  after  —  thank  you  very 
much!" 

"She  can  have  the  use  of  this  suite  of  rooms,  my  lord," 
volunteered  the  matron,  neglecting  this  foolish  remark. 

"  Then  there  wasn't  any  mistake.     .     .     ." 

"Hush,  Fifi!" 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  hastily  looked  aside  and  coughed; 
and,  hastily  too,  Lord  Desmond  pursued : 

"  That's  right.  And  —  I  wonder  if  you  could  sleep 
in  her  room  to-night  ?  Just  that  she  might  not  be  nerv- 
ous —  frightened  in  a  strange  place." 

Horror-stricken,  Virginia  slid  from  the  table  and 
sprang  round  to  him. 

"Oh,  but  I  shouldn't  —  Oh,  what  nonsense!  Oh, 
I  should  hate  it!  Oh,  why  shouldn't  you  stay  in  the 
same  hotel  ?  " 

He  put  her  aside,  as  one  puts  aside  a  beloved  but 
tiresome  child. 

"It's  quite  settled,  then?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord.     I  understand  your  lordship  is  leaving 


PANTHER'S    CUB  351 

at  once."  This  came  bashfully.  The  next  sentence  was 
more  hesitating  still:  "I  hope  your  lordship  will  excuse 
me.  The  situation  was  a  little  awkward,  wasn't  it? 
What  with  the  scratch  out  on  the  book,  and  the  air  of 
your  lordship's  motor,  and  the  way  your  lordship's  choffer 
took  upon  himself  to  answer  boots  —  in  a  house  like  mine, 
and  as  a  widow,  my  lord,  one  can't  be  too  particular  — " 
She  broke  off,  taken  aback  by  his  frown. 

"  You  need  not  say  another  word ! "  ("  You  have  said 
too  many  already,  silly  old  woman!"  his  eyes  plainly 
added.)  "Yes,  I'm  going  now." 

"And  have  your  luggage  brought  down  again,  my 
lord?" 

"Certainly."     He   almost    stamped    his   foot   at   her. 

All  in  a  fluster  (as  Mrs.  Biddicombe  described  her 
sensations  to  the  young  lady  in  the  offices),  the  worthy 
woman  hurried  to  the  door. 

"I'll  come  back  and  look  after  you  presently,  Miss 
Loosky,  dear."  It  was  as  near  as  she  could  get  to  the 
outlandish  name. 

She  had  to  pause  on  the  landing  and  breathe  very 
heavily  three  times  with  a  flat  and  vibrating  sound,  one 
hand  pressed  upon  the  fourth  button  of  her  purple 
cashmere  bodice :  these  were  exciting  and  singular  doings, 
for  Biddicombe's ! 

The  door  had  no  sooner  shut  off  the  portly  form  than 
Fifi  broke  into  loud  remonstrance.  Had  she  been  as 
young  in  years  as  she  was  still  in  mind,  it  would  have 
been  the  loud  wail  of  a  worn-out  child. 

"Oh,  oh!  I  never  thought  you  would  have  been  so 


352  PANTHER'S    CUB 

unkind!  To  leave  me  alone  like  this!  What  do  you 
inean  to  do  with  me  ?  I  don't  understand ! " 

"My  dear,  it  is  only  because  I  must  take  care  of  you. 
1  shall  be  back  in  the  morning.  I've  got  a  great  deal 
to  do  to-night.  I  — "  He  broke  off.  All  at  once  the 
stifled  mewing  of  a  cat  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  He 
looked  round  distractedly.  The  creature  was  shut  in 
next  door,  no  doubt.  He  tried  to  take  up  the  thread  of 
his  explanation.  The  plaintive  sound  obtruded  itself 
again.  "I  can't  explain,"  he  cried,  almost  irritably. 

She  was  moving  away  from  him  in  uncertainty;  she 
glanced  at  him  once  or  twice  timidly  over  her  shoulder, 
then  flung  herself  across  the  sofa  and  extracted  from 
behind  it  a  hidden  basket.  Instantly  the  mewing  ceased. 

Defiantly,  yet  with  apprehension  too,  she  set  it  on  the 
table  and  hurriedly  lifted  forth  a  struggling,  irate  kitten. 

"You  brought  that!"  he  cried. 

"I  could  not  leave  him  behind.  —  Elisa  would  have 
killed  him!"  She  hugged  the  little  beast  to  her  breast. 
"  He'll  give  no  trouble.  He's  been  so  good ! " 

"  How  did  you  hide  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  your  chauffeur  looked  after  him,  at  Canterbury." 

"Gibbons?" 

He  was  smiling.  She  looked  up,  all  confidence,  and 
smiled  in  her  turn.  Then,  suddenly,  in  a  frightened 
voice: 

"Lord  Desmond     .     .     .     what  is  the  matter?" 

It  seemed  impossible  that  she  could  have  seen  aright, 
but,  surely  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes ! 

"The  matter  is,"  he  said,  and  tried  to  laugh,  and 
failed,  "  that  you  are  such  a  child ! " 


PANTHER'S    CUB  353 

Still  clasping  close  the  now  swearing  Persian,  she  stood, 
not  daring  to  glance  at  her  lover  again. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said  and  stroked  her  head  with  a 
light  touch.  "  Sleep  well ! " 

"  How  strange  you  are  —  Don't  you  love  me  any 
more  ?  " 

"  Do  I  not  love  you ! "  He  gave  a  kind  of  broken  laugh. 
"  De  I  n»t  ?  "  and  he  caught  her  bright  dishevelled  head 
between  both  his  hands.  Checking  himself  upon  the 
very  pulse  of  his  passion,  he  kissed  her  once,  above  the 
eyes,  and  in  two  strides  he  was  gone. 


Ill 

FRITZ  ARRIVES 

FIFI  and  the  kitten,  having  been  duly  fed  and  cossetted 
by  the  now  completely  conquered  Mrs.  Biddicombe,  the 
latter  proceeded  to  help  her  charge  to  prepare  for  bed. 

"I  could,  of  course,  easily  depute  one  of  the  chamber- 
maids to  brush  your  hair  and  undress  you,  Miss  Loosky, 
my  dear,  but  I  promised  his  lordship  — "  it  was  pleasant 
to  hear  with  what  gusto  the  words  "his  lordship,"  unusual 
to  her  experience,  tripped  off  the  good  lady's  tongue  — 
"I  promised  his  lordship  to  look  after  you  myself.  And 
a  bargain's  always  been  a  bargain  to  me,  miss  —  whether 
with  boarders  or  my  own  family." 

But  Fifi  announced  she  always  brushed  her  own  hair. 
And,  having  seen  her  beginning  to  wield  one  of  those 
gold-mounted  hair  brushes  —  the  like  of  which  the  pro- 
prietress of  the  Marine  Hotel  had  never  beheld  before  — 
Mrs.  Biddicombe  ventured  to  think  she  might  slip  down- 
stairs herself  and  have  her  supper. 

"After  which,  my  love,  I'll  creep  to  bed  in  the  little 
dressing  room  just  off;  and  I'll  put  the  door  on  the  jar, 
so  that  you'll  not  feel  frightened  —  as  his  lordship  feared." 

The  girl  sat  dreamily  before  the  dimity-covered  dressing 
table,  wrapped  in  a  very  wonderful  dressing  gown  of 
white  silk  and  lace  (the  chambermaid  in  the  London 

354 


PANTHER'S     CUB  355 

Hotel,  and  the  young  lady  from  Selfridge's  having  both 
opined  that  such  a  garment  was  a  necessity  for  a 
bride). 

Her  hands  dropped  in  her  lap.  She  stared  into  the  little 
mirror,  with  the  dazed  fixity  of  the  over-fatigued.  Con- 
fusedly the  scene  of  stormy  emotions  she  had  just  lived 
through  kept  repassing  in  her  mind.  She  had  a  vague, 
desolate  sense  of  being  abandoned  in  this  strange  place; 
of  everything  being  terrifyingly  different  from  what  she 
had  expected.  Yet  confidence  transcended  doubt;  the 
vision  of  Desmond's  last  look,  the  echo  of  his  last  words 
were  as  the  memory  of  a  consecration. 

"Do  I  not  —  do  I  not  love  you!"  .  .  .  How  he 
had  said  those  words !  How  he  had  gazed  upon  her ! 

Warmth  and  comfort  flooded  her  being  at  the  thought. 
And  so  the  moments  flowed  on,  in  the  silence  of  her  room. 

Presently  some  sound  from  without  began  to  fix  her 
attention.  She  became  conscious  of  approaching  steps 
on  the  stairs,  on  the  landing  outside;  and  then  of  a  whis- 
pered colloquy.  But  when  the  door  of  the  sitting  room 
was  opened  and  shut,  her  heart  bounded.  Could  he  have 
returned  ?  Who  else  indeed  would  be  brought  into  her 
sitting  room  ?  Ah,  he  had  realized  how  lonely  she  would 
be  if  he  were  not  in  the  house.  .  .  . 

A  sharp  knock  at  the  door  of  communication;  and  the 
waiter's  laboured  English  through  the  panels: 

"Gentleman  want  to  speak  you,  miss,"  confirmed  the 
delightful  anticipation. 

"Oh,  Lord  Desmond,  is  it  you?"  she  cried  joyfully. 
"Back  already!  One  minute,  one  minute!" 

Her  grand  new  dressing  wrapper  was  quite  good  enough 


356  PANTHER'S     CUB 

for  a  tea-gown,  she  thought;  but  she  must  just  do  up  her 
hair  again. 

Her  hands  were  trembling  in  her  thick  tresses,  when 
another  knock  fell  upon  her  door,  and  another  voice 
called : 

"Fifi     .     .     .!" 

"Fritz!"  she  answered  impulsively,  in  a  loud  cry  of 
dismay. 

She  threw  open  the  door  upon  the  same  impulse: 
mixed  anger,  mixed  fear.  —  Old  Fritz  stood  indeed  on 
the  threshold. 

He  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  drew  her  into  the  sitting 
room.  She  turned  her  head  away  uncomfortably  from 
the  sad,  reproachful  eyes  that  burned  upon  her  out  of  his 
haggard  face. 

He  measured  her  and  her  finery  a  moment  in  silence; 
glanced  across  her  through  the  open  door  into  the  bedroom 
and  saw  the  gold  gleaming  on  the  dressing-table  under  the 
grim  electric  lamp. 

"Ah,  my  poor  little  one!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  sort  of 
whisper;  and  unconsciously  his  grasp  tightened  on  her 
wrist. 

She  called  out  in  pain,  and  he  released  her,  exclaiming 
violently : 

"To  leave  me  this  way,  after  all!" 

"I  did  write  to  you,"  she  said,  backing  to  the  table, 
and  tossing  her  hair  from  her  face. 

"Yes —  Yes — "  The  old  man  sat  down  suddenly, 
and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  as  one  stunned.  There 
fell  a  small,  miserable  silence.  When  he  roused  himself 
he  drew  a  crumpled  note  from  his  pocket. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  357 

"Yes,  you  wrote,"  he  resumed.  "You  gave  me  the 
clue.  Ah,  I  have  traced  you.  That  yellow  motor,  that 
verdammte  yellow  motor !" 

"Fritz  .  .  .!"  she  cried,  frightened  by  his  incoher- 
ence, biting  her  lip  as  he  went  on,  unheeding: 

''I  won't  go  to  Germany!'  .  .  .  Ah,  poor  silly 
child !  '  I  won't  marry  that  Baron ! '  .  .  .  God  forgive 
them  that  drove  you  to  worse  .  .  .!  'I'm  going  to  be 
happy.'  "  He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  covered 
his  face,  groaning.  "Happy!  mein  Gott,  happy!" 

"Fritz!  — Oh,   don't  Fritz!     Fritz     .     .     .!" 

The  sight  of  his  suffering,  the  sense  of  its  unreasonable- 
ness, withal  a  heavy  consciousness  of  her  own  inaptitude, 
drove  her  more  to  exasperation  than  to  remorse. 

"And  am  I  not  to  be  happy?"  she  demanded.  "Why 
should  I  not  be  happy?" 

He  lifted  his  head,  fulminating  her  with  his  lion  look. 

"Silence,  child!"  Then  he  turned  his  chair  and  with 
his  great  trembling  hands  spread  out  her  letter  on  the 
table.  '  'How  would  you  like  to  call  me  my  lady  ?'  "  — 
He  pointed  to  the  sentence  with  a  slowly  moving  finger, 
then  got  up.  "My  lady!"  Suddenly  the  fierce  anguish 
possessing  him  escaped  control:  he  struck  the  words  with 
his  fist.  "  And  so  I  knew ! " 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"My  lady!"  he  repeated  in  yet  more  unmeasured 
passion.  "So  he  baited  the  trap!—  And  what  shall 
the  world  call  you  now?"  At  the  height  of  his  wrath, 
the  agonizing  meaning  of  his  own  words  struck  him; 
he  fell  from  anger  into  depth  of  compassion  and  his 
voice  suddenly  broke  into  notes  of  tenderness  and  sorrow 


358  PANTHER'S    CUB 

far  beyond  tears.  "What  shall  the  world  call  thee,  now? 
Ach,  my  poor  little  girl,  ach,  mein  Kindchen!  —  Never 
fear,  never  fear!  to  me  never  anything  but  the  little  one 
I  love." 

He  opened  his  arms  with  a  wide  gesture. 

"My  little  one     .     .     ."  he  repeated. 

But,  pettishly  she  drew  from  the  shadow  of  his  embrace. 

"Don't,  Fritz  —  I'm  not  a  child  now!" 

His  arms  dropped  by  his  side.  He  stood,  staring 
before  him  a  moment  in  silence;  then,  drawing  his  great 
red  silk  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  wiped  his 
forehead.  Suddenly,  he  seemed  to  draw  himself  together; 
inhaled  a  long  breath  through  his  nostrils,  as  one  bracing 
himself  to  endurance;  and,  turning  once  more  upon  her 
the  profound  sorrow  of  his  glance,  he  said  slowly: 

"So,  it  has  come  to  this!  No  — "  lifting  up  his  hand, 
as  if  in  answer  to  the  defiance  on  her  flushing,  sullen 
face  —  "you  need  fear  no  reproaches  from  me;  what  is 
done  is  done.  Of  that,  better  to  speak  no  word!" 

"Oh,  Fritz,  don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  she  exclaimed 
miserably. 

Instantly  he  averted  his  eyes. 

"No,  no  — "  Again  tenderness  fought  with  the  severe 
composure  he  was  putting  upon  himself.  "Try  and 
understand.  I  am  here  for  you.  The  old  man  is  here 
for  you!"  Peremptorily  he  bore  down  her  attempt  to 
speak.  "Not  another  word!  Not  one  minute  more  in 
this  place !  Tie  up  your  hair  —  all  that  dishevelled  hair ! 
—  Take  off  that  ill-gotten  finery.  On  with  your  cloak 
and  come  with  me!" 

"Go  with  you!" 


PANTHER'S     CUB  359 

Amazement,  derision,  the  utmost  rebellion,  was  in  her 
voice,  in  her  attitude,  in  her  look. 

"But  you  must  come  with  me,  unhappy  child  —  you 
must  come!  There  is  nothing  else  for  you." 

She  fended  him  off,  as  he  would  again  have  seized  her 
hand. 

"Leave  Lord  Desmond?  —  for  the  Baron,  I  sup- 
pose! That's  what  you  want!  Or  your  farm- 
house in  Germany!"  Her  voice  grew  shriller  and 
more  strained  at  every  word.  "You're  all  determined 
to  spoil  my  life.  —  What  right,  what  right  have  you  to 
order  me  about  ?  —  I've  told  you  before,  you've  no 
right." 

His  gray  head  bent  a  little  lower;  his  bowed  shoulders 
seemed  to  become  weighted  as  in  silence  he  listened. 
With  such  sorrow  might  a  man  look  upon  one  beloved 
in  delirium. 

"Oh,  you've  kept  me  a  child  long  enough,  all  of  you!" 
she  went  on.  "Now  I'm  a  woman  at  last,  I'm  a  woman! 
I  can  choose  for  myself!" 

"And  you  chose — "  he  said  in  a  low  voice  —  "dis- 
honour." 

"Dishonour?"  she  repeated,  dropping  from  her  high 
key  of  resentment  into  a  lower  note  of  complete  astonish- 
ment. 

"Ah,  Fifi,  it  isn't  as  if  you  did  not  know!  —  You  had 
your  lesson,  that  time  at  Como.  .  .  .  With  what 
tears  did  you  not  learn,  then,  what  is  thought  of  a  girl 
who  goes  away  with  a  man " 

She  interrupted  him,  almost  stammering  in  an  angry 
haste  of  triumph. 


360  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Unless  she  is  going  to  marry  him!  Well,  I  am  going 
to  marry  Lord  Desmond!" 

"Marry  him!" 

He  spoke  almost  voicelessly,  as  if  the  strength  for 
sound  had  suddenly  failed  him.  The  girl  laughed  in  scorn. 

"What  do  you  think,  what  do  you  think,  I  wonder? 
Of  course  he  is  going  to  marry  me!" 

The  old  man  was  silent,  and  his  silence  pressed  inex- 
plicably, like  a  weight  of  misery,  upon  the  girl's  heart. 
She  was  so  tired!  Oh,  she  was  so  tired!  It  was  all  so 
strange,  and  she  had  cried  all  her  tears! 

Old  Fritz  put  out  an  uncertain  hand,  feeling  for  the 
table,  as  if  to  support  himself.  Then,  at  last,  very  gently, 
he  spoke: 

"When,  Fifi?" 

She  stared  at  him  a  second,  with  abashed  face. 

"He  didn't  say,"  she  faltered  at  last. 

"My  poor  little  Fifi!  Ach,  my  poor,  unhappy  child!  — 
When  a  man  means  to  marry  a  maiden,  seest  thou,  he 
marries  her  before  he  takes  her  away." 

"What?"  she  cried  sharply. 

"It  is  the  old,  old  story.  —  This  morning  you  should 
have  been  married.  This  morning! —  Ach,  Thou  my 
God!  how  this  black-hearted  scoundrel  has  deceived  you!" 

As  his  passion  mounted  once  more,  so  did  hers.  Anger 
warning  her  again  to  defiance,  after  that  transient,  inex- 
plicable moment  of  apprehension  and  misery. 

"I  won't  listen  to  you!"  she  cried,  thrusting  her  fingers 
into  her  ears,  and  stamping  her  foot. 

He  caught  her  as  she  flung  herself  toward  her  room. 

"Fritz     ...     let  me  go!     Oh,  oh,  Fritz,  you  brute, 


PANTHER'S    CUB  361 

let  me  go .  I  hate  yoii !  -  Oh,  why  did  he  go  away  and 
leave  me?" 

"Aye,  where  is  he,  the  villain?  The  devil  who  stole 
my  little  child,  my  little  pure  child!  Ach,  Gott!  that  he 
were  indeed  here!" 

"If  you  don't  let  me  go,  I'll  scream  for  help." 

His  hands  dropped  from  her.  He  was  a  strong  man; 
in  spite  of  age  and  sickness,  stronger  than  most.  And, 
in  his  wrath  and  anguish  he  felt  himself  indeed  a  match 
for  the  seducer.  Lord  Desmond  would  have  met  with 
small  mercy,  had  he  found  himself  within  the  great  knotted 
hands.  But  he  was  no  match  against  her.  To  him  she 
was  always  the  little  one.  He  saw  her,  not  in  vigorous 
young  womanhood,  defying  him  with  all  her  vigour  and 
youth,  as  she  was,  but  the  child  he  had  guarded  most  of 
her  life;  the  child  who  was  always  ill-treated,  always  in 
danger;  the  child  that  could  be  so  easily  hurt. 

"I  won't  listen  to  you,"  she  was  saying  again,  in  calmer 
tones  that  expressed  all  the  more  firmly  an  unalterable 
resolve.  "I  trust  him,  I  must  trust  him.  I  love  him! 
I'll  never  leave  him  —  never! —  You  have  always 
scolded  me  and  been  cross  and  spoilt  my  least,  least  little 
bit  of  fun,  all  my  life.  Mama's  always  hated  me,  I 
see  that  now.  She's  cruel.  She  doesn't  want  me!  — 
I'm  free  of  you  all.  I  am  free  of  you  all!"  she  repeated 
with  a  fierce  deliberation,  "and  I'm  going  to  be  happy, 
happy  in 'my  own  way." 

She  stood  on  the  threshold  of  her  door,  and  shot  him 
a  look  of  final  repudiation.  Then,  with  her  inexpressible 
schoolgirl  roughness  of  movement  dashed  into  her  room 
and  slammed  the  door  between  them. 


362  PANTHER'S     CUB 

He  heard  her  push  the  bolt,  and  remained  gazing  at  the 
closed  door  as  if  blasted.  Then  he  let  himself  fall  into 
a  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  There  are 
moments  when  the  vision  before  the  mental  eye  is  so 
terrible  that  one  has  to  force  one's  brain  to  realize  it. 
Fritz  clasped  his  forehead  in  this  agonizing  effort. 

The  bolt  within  was  drawn  back  with  a  slow  touch, 
very  different  from  the  energy  of  that  which  had  shot  it.  — 
Fifi  opened  the  door  a  little  way;  peered  in  childishly; 
hesitated;  and  then,  almost  timidly,  came  up  to  the  bent 
figure  with  the  hidden  face. 

"Fritz     .     .     .!" 

He  did  not  move. 

"  Fritz,  dear  —  I  didn't  mean  to  be  so  horrid !  I  —  I'm 
sorry.  You've  always  meant  to  be  good  to  me.  I  know 
that.  Only  you  shouldn't  have  said  those  things  —  of 
him.  You  ought  to  be  sorry  for  that,  too.  Fritz  — ' 
She  was  close  to  him  now;  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder; 
stooped  and  pressed  herself  against  him,  her  loose  ruddy 
hair  against  his  white  locks. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  bad  friends  with  you.  Not  to-night 
of  all  nights!  For,  somehow,  Fritz  dear,  though  he  did 
not  say  so,  I  feel  that  to-morrow  will  be  my  wedding-day." 

She  had  sunk  down  on  her  knees  as  she  spoke,  and  at 
these  last  words  he  looked  at  her.  His  eyes  were  dim;  the 
soul  that  looked  through  them  seemed  far  away.  She  went 
on,  flinging  her  warm  round  arm  coaxingly  about  him. 

"Oh,  don't  be  angry!  I  know  I  was  ungrateful  to  go 
off  without  telling  you.  But  you  are  so  strict,  Fritz. 
And  you  frightened  me  about  Germany  .  .  .  And 
oh,  oh,  I'm  so  tired  .  .  .  It's  been  such  a  strange 


PANTHER'S     CUB  363 

night,  and  I  do  so  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  to  wake  up  and 
find  it's  to-morrow  morning! —  Look  here,  just  let  me 
say  my  prayers  at  your  knee.  It's  perhaps  for  the  last 
time,  you  know.  And  then  you'll  have  to  forgive  me." 

She  was  almost  inarticulate,  from  very  weariness; 
too  overcome  with  an  ever-increasing  exhaustion  to  be 
able  to  think  of  anything  much  beyond  the  single  idea  of 
the  moment. 

Without  waiting  for  him  to  answer,  she  bowed  her  head 
and  began  with  an  unconscious  lapse  into  the  voice  and 
manner  of  the  child  who  had  first  been  taught  these  words : 

"Voter  im  Himmel,  gieb  mir  deinen  Segen.  Hilf  mir 
sein  ein  gutes  Kind.  .  .  ."  All  at  once  the  man  inter- 
rupted her  with  a  great  cry : 

"She  can  still  say  her  child-prayers!  Oh,  merciful 
Father,  how  hast  Thou  preserved  Thy  lamb!" 

He  flung  his  arms  up,  and  as  she  clung  to  him,  frightened, 
gave  a  loud  sob  and  clasped  her  to  him. 

It  was  the  culminating  mysterious  terror  of  the  night 
for  her.  Fifi  sobbed  a  little  in  her  turn.  But,  even  as 
she  preased  against  his  heaving  breast,  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion oTcrpowered  her. 

It  was  years,  many  years,  since  she  had  slept  in  his 
arms.  He  held  her  yet  a  little  longer  for  the  comfort  of 
it.  He  thought,  with  a  yearning  tenderness,  how,  those 
many  years  ago,  he  would  have  carried  the  little  figure  in 
his  arms,  and  laid  her  in  her  cot  without  awakening  her. 

Now  she  had  grown  out  of  his  arms ;  by  her  own  words, 
out  of  his  life.  —  It  is  the  heartbreak  of  those  who  spend 
themselves  in  a  real,  or  vicarious,  paternity,  to  have  to 
come  to  that  inevitable  parting  of  the  ways;  when  the  child 


364  PANTHER'S     CUB 

they  have  sheltered  chooses,  or  is  forced  by  fate,  to  take 
his  own  road;  when  the  one  who  has  hitherto  been  able 
to  suffice,  must  stand  aside  and  see  danger,  unhappiness 
threaten,  and  be  powerless  to  avert  it. 

He  led  her  gently,  half  blind  with  sleep  as  she  was,  to 
her  bedside;  and  parted  from  her  there. 

"Good  night,  KindckenJ" 

"Good-bye  .  .  ."  she  murmured;  yawned,  a*d 
drooped  against  her  pillow. 

Averting  his  eyes  from  the  open  dressing  case,  which 
repeated  the  glint  of  gold  of  the  table,  Fritz  went  back  to 
the  sitting  room.  His  mind  was  made  up,  after  the  simple 
and  complete  manner  of  his  nature.  The  situation  was 
almost  an  impossible  one  for  him  to  solve.  .  .  .  The 
man  who  had  eloped  with  the  singer's  beautiful  daughter, 
had  done  so  with  every  appearance  of  premeditated 
villainy.  Yet,  so  far,  he  seemed  to  have  behaved  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  have  successfully  concealed  his  real 
character  from  his  victim.  Strangest  of  all  was  this 
leaving  her,  alone  in  this  little,  utterly  respectable,  middle- 
class  hotel.  .  .  .  Where  had  he  gone  ?  Had  remorse 
suddenly  seized  him,  and  had  he  abandoned  his  vile 
project?  Would  he  return  on  the  morrow,  as  she  so 
confidently  expected,  to  carry  her  away? 

From  the  impenetrable  stupidity  of  his  overworked 
compatriot,  the  waiter,  Fritz  had  been  able  to  extract 
nothing  but  the  bare  fact  that  "there  had  been  a  gentle- 
man with  the  young  lady,  yes,  and  he  had  gone  away  in 
a  motor." 

Whichever  alternative  was  likely  to  prove  the  trfte 
one,  then,  Fifi  would  have  an  equally  crying  need  of  her 


PANTHER'S     CUB  365 

old  Fritz.  He  would  have  either  to  sustain  her,  left 
desolate  by  an  act  of  the  most  weak-minded  treachery; 
or  to  tear  her  away  from  an  allurement  which  spelt  destruc- 
tion. .  .  .  There  was  yet  the  other  contingency: 
the  possibility  that  the  lover  meant  honestly  after  all. 
The  old  musician  had  too  much  experience  of  life  to  place 
much  credence  in  this  too  consoling  thought.  Yet  it 
recurred  again  and  again.  Well,  the  morrow  would 
show.  For  the  present  his  own  course  lay  clear:  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  leave  the  house  that  held  her;  nay, 
even  the  room  that  adjoined  hers.  He  would  watch, 
within  call,  as  he  had  watched  those  nights  of  her  childish 
sicknesses.  Never,  indeed,  had  more  mortal  sickness 
threatened  her. 

He  closed  the  windows,  put  out  the  electric  light,  set 
the  door  that  gave  on  the  passage  ever  so  little  ajar,  so 
that  the  lightest  footfall  should  not  escape  him;  and  grop- 
ing his  way  to  the  saddle-back  armchair,  sat  down,  and 
prepared  himself  in  great  patience  for  this  night  watch. 

He  trusted  to  chance  not  to  be  discovered.  —  If  he 
were,  well,  he  must  find  some  manner  of  imposing  his 
will  —  for  there  he  meant  to  stay. 

An  hour  dragged  by;  he  heard  various  sounds  that 
denoted  the  closing  of  the  quiet  little  establishment; 
then  a  footfall,  accompanied  by  heavy  breathing,  the 
jingle  of  keys,  and  that  rattle  which  an  uncompromising 
moreen  petticoat  gives  to  the  feminine  gait.  The  steps, 
the  panting,  the  jingle  and  the  rustle  halted  on  the 
landing,  which  suddenly  became  plunged  in  darkness. 
Then  a  door  was  carefully  opened  and  closed  hard  by  — 
and  Biddicombe's  hotel  was  wrapped  in  sleep. 


IV 
AN   EXCHANGE   OF  GIFTS 

BROAD  sunshine  was  flooding  the  little  sitting  room, 
which  Lord  Desmond  had  characterized  as  "such  a  hole"; 
and  ugly  as  were  its  details,  it  had  stamped  it  with  all 
the  cheerfulness  which  blue  sky,  open  windows  and  warm 
airs  must  carry  with  them. 

Through  a  gap  in  the  houses  opposite  there  was  a  glint 
of  the  sea,  dazzling;  the  smell  of  the  sea  was  on  the  breeze, 
its  wholesome  salt  taste  sought  the  lips;  its  voice  was  all 
encompassing  —  not  obtrusive  but  endlessly  pleasant  to 
the  ear  that  cared  to  listen. 

Old  Fritz,  still  in  the  saddle-back  armchair,  could  not 
but  feel  something  of  the  hopefulness  of  the  lovely  morn- 
ing, of  the  strong  vigour  of  the  sea  breath,  creeping  upon 
tired  frame  and  anxious  mind. 

The  landlady  of  the  hotel,  in  person,  was  spreading  a 
white  cloth,  with  meticulous  care,  upon  the  centre  table. 
Strange  uses  had  she  been  brought  to,  what  with  lady's- 
maid  work  overnight,  and  waiter's  work  this  morning! 
But  she  had  her  reasons,  as  she  was  garrulously  explain- 
ing the  while. 

"I  made  the  tea  myself,  Mr.  Meyer,  and  I  brought  it 
up  myself,  Mr.  Meyer,  as  you  see."  She  lifted  the  tray 
from  the  sideboard  even  as  she  spoke,  and,  staggering 
under  its  weight,  set  it  in  its  place,  with  a  parenthetical 

366 


PANTHER'S     CUB  367 

"Don't  stir,  sir,  I  beg.  We  want  as  little  gossip  in  the 
house  as  possible,  Mr.  Meyer,  as  a  gentleman  like  you  will 
understand.  Dear!  to  be  sure!"  She  paused  in  the  act 
of  lifting  a  large  blue  and  white  cup  to  the  side  nearest 
the  armchair,  and  drew  in  her  sucking  breath  of  unction. 
"To  think  of  you  sitting  up  here  all  night,  and  me  not  even 
aware  you  were  in  my  hotel!  You  could  have  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather,  when  I  looked  in  out  of  the 

young  lady's  room,  this  morning "  Here  she  laid 

her  fat  hand  over  her  heart,  as  if  the  memory  of  that  pal- 
pitating moment  was  still  too  much  for  her;  "and  saw  you 
fast  asleep  in  the  armchair  there." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  faint  smile.  "I 
haf  explained  to  you  why  I  did  it.  Poor  foolish  child, 
she  does  not  yet  understand,  my  good  madame,  the  posi- 
tion she  has  placed  herself  in.  Ach! — "  He  turned 
his  golden-hazel  eyes  suddenly  and  sternly  upon  the 
excellent  woman's  broad  and  honest  countenance  —  "I 
pray  Gott  she  may  never  understand!" 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  gave  her  morning  cap  a  slight  toss. 
If  the  old  foreign  gentleman  thought  she  needed  such 
hints.  — 

"Let  me  pour  you  out  a  cup,  sir,"  she  said,  turning  the 
conversation  with  dignity. 

But,  teapot  in  hand,  her  natural  good-natured  garru- 
lity began  to  pour  from  her  again  as  copiously  as  the 
strong  decoction  of  "fruity"  Indian  tea  from  the  spout. 

"Well,  as  you  say,  she  is  indeed  an  innocent  thing, 
Mr.  Meyer  —  and  that's  plain  for  any  one  to  see.  A 
child,  you  may  say  —  a  child,  in  spite  of  her  being  so  tall, 
such  a  fine  figure  of  a  young  lady,  a  regular  child!  She's 


368  PANTHER'S     CUB 

sleeping  still,  sir,  just  like  a  baby,  with  that  kitten  curled 
against  her."  She  chuckled,  with  tears  in  her  kind  eyes. 
"As  innocent  one  as  the  other,  you  may  say!  I  hadn't 
the  heart  to  disturb  her,  though  it  was  near  ten  o'clock, 
when  I  peeped  in  on  her,  just  now  —  me  having  over- 
slept myself  —  most  unusual,  sir." 

Fritz  absently  stirred  his  sugarless  tea. 

"Let  her  sleep  —  let  her  sleep." 

"Well,  she  was  guarded,  I  must  say!  (Couldn't  you 
fancy  a  bit  of  toast,  sir?)  What  with  you  on  the  one 
side  of  her,  and  me  on  the  other  —  oh,  his  lordship  was 
most  particular  about  that!  — 'You'll  sleep  with  her,  you'll 
take  care  of  her,  Mrs.  Biddicombe,'  his  lordship  said." 

She  dropped  her  tone  of  chuckling  good-humour,  and 
her  large,  high-coloured  face  became  suddenly  clouded. 
Sidling  two  or  three  steps  nearer  to  the  abstracted  figure 
in  the  chair,  she  hesitated  and  drew  her  finger  along  the 
tablecloth. 

"It's  all  a  mystery,  Mr.  Meyer,  sir,"  she  said  at  last, 
heaving  a  sigh.  "What  do  you  think  is  going  to  become 
of  her?" 

Her  voice  had  dropped  to  a  whisper.  From  under  his 
shaggy  gray  eyebrows  he  cast  upon  her  a  repressive  glance. 

"I  am  here  to  look  after  her,  madame." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure." 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  was  both  disappointed  and  affronted. 
But  curiosity  was  permanent  in  her  nature,  and  these 
feelings  were  evanescent. 

"As  you  was  telling  me,"  she  proceeded  engagingly, 
"she's  been  like  a  child  to  you." 

The  old  man  frowned  heavily  and  drank  the  cup  of 


PANTHER'S     CUB  369 

tea  at  one  draught.  The  landlady  let  herself  subside  on 
to  a  chair,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  it  to  mark  formality. 

"Will  he  come  back,  do  you  think  ?"  she  asked.  And, 
again,  lowering  her  voice:  "I  could  not  help  overhearing 
his  order  to  the  choffer:  'London  road,'  he  cries,  'and 
top  speed.'" 

Fritz  pushed  his  chair  from  the  table  with  a  movement 
of  sharp  impatience.  He  had  permitted  this  woman's 
garrulity  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  light  upon  a  situa- 
tion all  painful  mystery  to  him.  But  what  items  of  infor- 
mation he  had  obtained  were  so  contradictory;  this  last 
remark  of  hers  seemed  to  point  to  such  determined  and 
heartless  abandonment,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  endure 
it  all  no  longer.  He  must  cut  the  knot. 

But  even  while  he  strove  to  brace  himself  to  the  misery 
of  the  coming  struggle,  she  was  flowing  on: 

"If  only  he'd  come  back  to  her,  Mr.  Meyer!  I  can't, 
myself,  but  think  he  will,  somehow.  —  Oh,  dear!" 
Plunged  thus  unexpectedly  into  the  heart  of  a  most  thrill- 
ing and  aristocratic  romance,  Mrs.  Biddicombe  could 
not  contemplate  its  collapse  without  pangs  personal  as 
well  as  altruistic.  "He  didn't  speak  like  a  villain  — 
no,  nor  looked  like  one!  —  He's  very  handsome!"  Here 
the  confidential  undertone  was  again  adopted:  "When  I 
went  up  to  them,  last  night,  I  don't  mind  owning,  I  was 
thinking  some  ugly  things  about  him,  I  can  tell  you  — 
same  as  you  this  moment,  Mr.  Meyer.  What  with  his 
grand  car,  his  grand  choffer,  his  grand  luggage  —  and 
his  crossing  out  'Miss,'  where  she  had  begun  to  write 
it  in  the  book,  poor  innocent,  and  his  writing  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Brown,  large  and  bold  on  - 


370  PANTHER'S    CUB 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  fierce  exclamation: 

"What!" 

"Mr.  Meyer,  sir!" 

Fritz  had  risen,  towering,  it  seemed,  in  that  leonine 
wrath  of  his. 

"Look  here,  my  good  madame,  go  and  wake  her.  — 
But  quick !  —  Go  and  wake  her  this  minute,  I  must  get 
her  away,  at  once!" 

"  Lord !  Mr.  Meyer.  —  There's  no  knowing,  he  might 
come  back!" 

"  Ach,  are  you  woman;  need  I  say  more  to  you  ?  Can 
you  not  see  I  dare  not,  I  may  not,  trust  her  within  his 
reach  again?" 

The  landlady  had  risen.  She  was  trembling;  her 
florid  face  had  assumed  a  purplish  pallor. 

"Won't  you  give  them  both  the  chance,  sir?" 

The  old  man  was  pacing  backward  and  forward  across 
the  window-bow;  half  to  himself,  half  to  her,  he  answered : 

"I  have  been  mad  to  think  there  was  a  chance!" 

"You  see,  sir,"  pleaded  she,  "it's  rather  awkward  for 
me.  I've  given  a  pledge,  so  to  speak,  to  his  lordship 

Her  cheeks  quivered  with  emotion,  as  she  spoke. 

" Ach,  silence,  madame!"  cried  the  German,  in  the 
soreness  of  his  heart  stirred  beyond  the  bounds  of  courtesy. 
"I  will  myself  wake  the  child." 

He  was  moving  impetuously,  still  limping  heavily  on 
the  gouty  foot,  toward  the  bedroom  door,  when  the 
throb  of  a  motor  down  the  narrow  street,  the  crash  and 
groan  of  its  sudden  halt  before  the  door,  made  the  two 
look  at  each  other  with  eyes  in  which  a  similar  expecta- 
tion chased  the  clouds  of  mutual  annoyance. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  371 

Then  Mrs.  Biddicombe  clasped  her  hands,  and  a  smile 
as  broad  as  the  woman  herself  irradiated  her  countenance. 
Hasty  steps  were  springing  on  the  stair. 

"It's  him!  —  I  knew  it!"  she  breathed.  Almost  upon 
the  ejaculation  Lord  Desmond  entered  the  room.  He 
was  wrapped  to  the  chin  in  a  summer  motor  coat,  and 
his  usually  pallid  face  was  gray  with  fatigue.  But  his 
eyes  were  bright,  almost  boyish.  He  carried  a  small 
box  in  his  hand.  Pressed  with  haste,  and  travel-stained 
as  he  seemed,  he  had  yet  a  made  careful  morning  toilet, 
and  his  cheek  was  fresh-shaven. 

"Mrs.  Biddicombe!"  he  cried,  at  sight  of  the  land- 
lady; then  became  aware  of  the  musician's  burly  figure, 
and  stopped  short,  measuring  him  with  a  glance  of  sudden 
haughty  annoyance. 

Fritz  returned  the  look  with  piercing  steadiness.  Neither 
spoke. 

"Oh,  my  heart!"  —Mrs.  Biddicombe  was  tactfully 
flustered  —  "You've  given  me  such  a  turn,  my  lord!" 

Desmond,  at  that,  wheeled  round  upon  her,  and 
resumed,  as  if  he  had  not  been  interrupted: 

"Will  you  kindly  take  these  flowers  to  Miss  Lovinska, 
and  tell  her  please " 

Fritz's  voice  broke  in,  almost  as  ponderously  as  if  his 
great  bulk  had  come  between  them: 

"You  will  take  no  message  from  this  gentleman  to  Miss 
—  Lovinska." 

"What's  this?"  inquired  Lord  Desmond,  with  indes- 
cribable arrogance,  and  once  more  turned  to  face  the  old 
man. 

There   was  a  pause,   during  which  the  two  seemed 


372  PANTHER'S    CUB 

to  measure  forces.  And  in  the  grip  of  its  suspense  none 
heeded  the  halting  of  a  cab  under  the  window,  nor  the 
shuffle  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  It  was  not  until  a 
voice,  well  known  to  both  of  them,  was  heard  repudiating 
any  suggestion  of  announcement,  that  the  musician 
and  the  diplomatist  beheld,  with  blasted  astonishment 
and  equal  dismay,  the  appearance  on  the  threshold,  arm 
in  arm,  of  that  incongruous  pair  of  mischief-makers, 
Sir  Joseph  Warren-Smith  and  Mr.  Philip  Scott.  Intro- 
duced by  Hermann,  the  waiter,  under  the  comprehensive 
though  inappropriate  term: 

"Gentlemen" 

"Desmond  —  Desmond!"  ejaculated  the  Member  of 
Parliament,  withdrawing  his  tightly  gloved  hand  from  the 
support  of  the  critic's  arm,  to  uplift  it  in  wooden  repro- 
bation. Then,  turning  to  Scott,  he  piously  interjected: 
"Thank  God,  we  are  not  too  late!"  Turning  again  upon 
the  prodigal:  "Desmond,  I  hardly  know  how  to  frame 
the  words.  —  Fortunately,  most  fortunately,  we  caught 
an  early  train !  —  When  Mr.  Scott  brought  me  the  dread- 
ful tidings,  I  was  so  overcome " 

Here  Scott  took  him  considerately  under  the  elbow: 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "Sir  Joseph  was  so  overcome  that  I  could 
do  no  less  than  offer  my  humble  assistance." 

His  small  eyes,  roaming  from  one  to  the  other,  now 
halted  upon  Fritz,  and  twinkled  with  positive  delight. 
"Hullo,  Mr.  Meyer!  —  You're  beforehand  with  us,  I 
see." 

He  abandoned  his  charge,  and  minced  up  to  the  repetitor 
with  his  hands  hanging  loosely  from  the  wrists,  his  whole 
personality  an  embodiment  of  satisfied  malice.  Truly, 


PANTHER'S     CUB  373 

the  hour  for  the  payment  of  scores  was  not  wont  to  strike 
with  such  promptitude! 

"Panther's  hot  on  the  scent,  you  know,"  he  murmured. 
"She'll  be  down  upon  you,  in  the  yellow  sixty,  before  you 
know  where  you  are.  —  Are  you  following  the  young  ladj 
in  her  new  career  ?  —  Courier,  perhaps  ?  By  the  way 
where  is  the  young  lady  ?" 

Fritz's  glance  merely  brushed  him  and  somehow  Mr. 
Scott's  humour,  his  very  presence,  seemed  to  evaporate. 
Sir  Joseph,  rolling  that  ox-like  eye  —  in  agonizing  com- 
position of  his  next  moral  appeal  —  met  Mrs.  Biddi- 
combe's  fixed  with  the  utmost  disfavour  upon  himself. 

"Tut,  tut,"  he  said  fretfully  to  his  brother-in-law,  who 
had  thrown  himself  into  his  accustomed  attitude  of  lan- 
guid endurance:  "this  is  very  painful  —  private  matters, 
matters  of  the  utmost  delicacy!  What's  that  woman 
doing  there?" 

"Mrs.  Biddicombe,"  said  Lord  Desmond  in  tones  of 
elaborate  courtesy,  "will  you  be  so  good  as  to  take  these 
flowers  to  Miss  Lovinska,  and  kindly  ask  her  to  wear 
them." 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  cast  a  look  of  triumph  at  Sir  Joseph, 
and  one  of  somewhat  deprecating  obstinacy  at  Mr.  Meyer, 
as  she  replied  with  alacrity. 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

Sir  Joseph  wrung  his  hands.  "This  is  shameless, 
positively  shameless,"  he  commented. 

"  And  will  you  ask  her,  from  me,  to  wear  white  to-day  ? 
-  If  she  has  a  white  dress." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Mrs.  Biddicombe,  yet  more  expan- 
sively. 


374  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"This,"  said  Sir  Joseph  into  space,  "is  positively  inde- 
cent." He  caught  the  critic's  eye.  "Mr.  Scott,  this  is 
indecent." 

Mrs.  Biddicombe,  bustling  toward  the  bedroom,  halted 
to  survey  the  last  speaker  with  a  withering  glance  that 
began  at  his  spats  and  finished  at  his  bald  head.  "  Who- 
ever he  is,  he's  no  gentleman,"  was  the  inward  comment. 
The  good  woman  was  hesitating  no  longer;  she  was  alto- 
gether the  champion  of  the  aristocratic  lover. 

"And,  if  you  please,"  pursued  Lord  Desmond  in  his 
everyday,  rather  worn-out  voice,  "tell  Miss  Lovinska 
that  I  should  like  her  to  be  ready  in  an  hour." 

Sir  Joseph  gasped.  He  had  no  words  wherewith  to 
meet  a  situation  so  monstrous.  Unobtrusively,  as  the 
bedroom  door  closed  upon  the  landlady,  Fritz  crossed  the 
room  and  stood  before  it. 

Mr.  Scott  had  recovered  his  momentarily  obscured 
pleasure  in  the  situation.  He  sat  down,  crossed  his  round 
legs,  and  brought  each  finger-tip  to  meet  the  correspond- 
ing one;  it  was  an  attitude  of  much  sagacity. 

"Fact  is,  Lord  Desmond,"  he  said,  "I've  been  dragged 
into  this  affair  of  yours.  What  can  a  man  do  ?  I  was 
rung  up  by  La  Marmora  herself  at  midday  yesterday  — 
flight  of  Cub  just  discovered  — '  you'd  better  tell  that 
Smith  creature,'  she  screams  (beg  pardon,  Sir  Joseph, 
Panther's  own  words,  hardly  knew  wrhat  she  was  saying, 
poor  dear)  — '  get  him  to  take  some  action,  you  brought 
him  to  my  house!  —  (I  didn't,  but  that's  a  detail) - 
Make  him  useful  for  once.'  You  mustn't  mind  my 
repeating  what  she  said,  Sir  Joseph  —  she  was  in  a  very 
natural  passion  - 


PANTHER'S     CUB  375 

He  flung  his  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  struck 
by  the  unconscious  jocularity  of  his  own  description. 
"  Natural !  Jove !  —  I  should  think  she  was  —  natural 
in  a  passion!  —  Well,  it's  no  laughing  matter,  really." 

"No,  indeed,"  puffed  Sir  Joseph. 

"No,  indeed.  We  are  here  in  the  interest  of  virtue, 
morality  and  the  rest  of  it.  Distracted  family.  Two 
distracted  families. — There's  yours,  you  know,  and  there's 
hers  —  Panther's.  —  Shocking  to  think  of  a  respectable 
marriage  project  being  interfered  with  by  this  —  ah  — " 
he  waved  a  loose  hand  —  "this  kind  of  thing." 

"Shocking,  shocking!"  groaned  the  M.  P. 

Lord  Desmond,  who  had  been  slowly  divesting  himself 
of  his  motor  coat,  as  if  the  critic's  speech  were  addressed 
to  any  one  but  himself,  now  looked  vaguely  round  at  him. 

"  I'm  rather  busy  —  would  you  mind  leaving  my  sitting 
room  —  and  taking  Sir  Joseph  with  you  —  ?  "  He  turned 
to  Fritz:  "Would  you  mind?" 

A  gesture,  quietly  insolent,  pointed  in  each  case  toward 
the  door. 

Sir  Joseph  grew  slowly  purple,  with  a  really  alarm- 
ing air  of  seeming  to  swell  with  suppressed  emotion.  And 
the  old  musician  moved  not  an  inch  from  his  post.  Scott 
pursed  his  lips  and  dropped  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of 
his  chair. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  then,  in  his  most  man-of-the- 
world  manner,  "believe  me  it's  not  worth  it.  Panther's 
Cub's  not  worth  it,  really!  Panther  herself  is  on  the 
spring.  My  dear  sir,  she's  here,  here  in  Dover!  Or  will 
be  in  a  moment  or  two.  She  and  Robecq  —  he- he!  — 
the  bridegroom !  My  dear  good  fellow,  you  were  tracked 


376  PANTHER'S     CUB 

with  the  greatest  ease.  That  motor  of  yours,  tele- 
phones, detectives,  police  traps,  all  the  rest  of  it.  Cecil 
hotel,  dinner  at  Canterbury,  night  at  Biddicombe's.  We 
had  it  all  pat  this  morning.  I  rather  think  your  brother's 
on  the  way,  too.  Martia  Marchioness  in  a  frightful 
state  —  who  knows  if  she  won't  turn  up  ?  —  Happy 
family  party !  —  But  it's  Panther  you'd  better  beware 
of,  really.  Salome,  he-he !  —  our  Salome !  She's  raging, 
foaming!  Vows  she'll  make  a  police  case  of  it,  ruin  you 
at  F.  O.  Abduction  of  minor  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Not 
a  pretty  business,  really ! " 

"Pretty  business!"  echoed  Sir  Joseph.  He  shot  out 
a  threatening  arm  and  shook  it  helplessly  up  and  down. 
"  You  must  give  her  up,  sir !  You  must " 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Lord  Desmond,  after  a  slight  pause, 
"that  I  really  can't  oblige  you  in  the  matter." 

He  glanced  around  at  all  three,  showing  his  teeth  in  a 
mirthless,  angry  smile.  Then: 

"Lady  Desmond  and  I,"  he  announced  with  great 
deliberation,  "  start  for  Paris  this  afternoon." 

"  Ach,  mein  Gott!  "  said  Fritz  under  his  breath. 

"Lady  Desmond!"  echoed  Scott,  with  an  incredulous 
crow  of  laughter. 

"Lady  Desmond  — "  The  fatal  words  gurgled  in  the 
baronet's  throat.  "Married — married!"  he  gasped, 
horror-struck. 

"  Not  yet,  Joseph  —  but  in  an  hour's  time.  The  motor 
outside  there  is  waiting  for  my  bride.  You  may  come 
and  sign  the  register  if  you  like  —  all  of  you  —  at  St. 
Barnabas's  Church  on  the  cliff." 

Inarticulate  with  rage,  Sir  Joseph  turned  once  upon 


PANTHER'S    CUB  377 

himself  and  staggered  into  a  chair,  falling  inertly,  like 
a  lay  figure  that  has  suddenly  lost  its  balance. 

"  There's  law  in  England,"  he  sputtered,  then.  "  This  — 

this   is   criminal! — This   can  be  stopped.     This " 

his  arms  began  to  beat  the  air. 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Scott,  rising.  "As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  can't  be  done,  you  know,  Lord  Desmond.  The 
girl's  under  age,  you  know.  The  mother  refuses  her 
consent." 

"Miss  Lovinska  is  not  under  age  and  Madame  la 
Marmora  will  not  refuse  her  consent."  The  strong  voice, 
the  heavy  German  accents  of  the  repetitor  made  all  start. 
"There  is  no  obstacle  whatever  to  the  marriage." 

Lord  Desmond  looked  as  haughtily  indifferent  to  this 
encouragement  as  to  the  preceding  opposition,  but  Sir 
Joseph  was  moved  almost  to  tears. 

"What!  —  What!  —  Mr.  Scott,  who  is  this  wicked  old 
man?" 

"Really,  my  good  Meyer,"  said  the  person  thus 
appealed  to,  "this  is  not  your  business,  you  know." 

"Mr.  Scott,"  said  Meyer  with  that  glance  of  supreme 
contempt,  "it  is  at  least  more  my  business  than 
yours." 

Unable  to  find  a  retort  to  so  unanswerable  a  statement, 
the  critic  turned  acidly  to  Sir  Joseph,  in  time  to  prevent 
a  fresh  explosion. 

"Pshaw,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  doing  more  harm  than 
good!" 

Lord  Desmond  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Mr.  Scott,"  he  said,  "and  you,  Joseph,  I  have  already 
politely  requested  you  to  leave  my  room.  If  you  per- 


378  PANTHER'S     CUB 

sist  in  remaining,  I  must  ring  the  bell  and  have  you 
ejected." 

The  critic  turned  green,  £.nd  dived  for  his  hat.  Twice 
turned  out  in  the  space  of  forty-eight  hours !  —  He  would 
remember  it  in  due  time  and  place. 

"Allow  me  to  remark,"  he  said  venomously,  stopping 
beside  Lord  Desmond  who  still  held  the  door  significantly 
open,  "that  Panther's  Cub  seems  to  have  succeeded  in 
—  what  was  the  phrase,  Sir  Joseph? — he-he! — in  gal- 
vanizing your  corpse  to  some  purpose." 

"No,  Mr.  Scott,"  answered  the  diplomatist  smiling. 
"Don't  say  galvanized  —  say  animated.  Virginia  Lov- 
inska  has  given  me  something  —  something  I  do  not 
expect  you  to  appreciate  —  a  soul." 

The  critic  muttered  with  a  yellow  look,  that  it  was 
supremely  comic!  Then  with  a  roughness  seldom  per- 
mitted in  his  silky  accents: 

"You  had  better  come,  Sir  Joseph,"  he  cried  to  his 
unfortunate  companion.  "You  can  wait  downstairs  for 
Madame  la  Marmora  if  you  like.  I  have  no  desire  to 
be  mixed  up  any  more  in  this  peculiar  —  this  unsavoury 
business!" 

Still  smiling,  Desmond  closed  the  door  on  the  speaker's 
empty  cackle;  on  his  brother-in-law's  tottering  form; 
and  turned  to  find  Fritz  Meyer's  gaze  upon  him  — 
piercing,  luminous  —  compelling. 


V 

ORANGE  BLOSSOMS 

CASSANDRA  STURMINSTER  had  met  her  husband 
casually  at  lunch  on  the  previous  day  at  their  own  resi- 
dence; and  from  kim  had  learned  that  "young  Des- 
mond had  made  an  infernal  ass  of  himself.  " 

"The  mater's  awfully  keen  on  my  joining  in  the  hue 
and  cry,"  he  had  gone  on,  his  long  teeth  exposed  in  a 
rueful  smile,  "but  I  can't  see  that  I  could  be  a  ha'porth  of 
good." 

Smiling  in  her  own  enigmatic  way  opposite  him,  his 
wife  responded. 

"No,  Wurzel,  I  don't  see  that  you  would  be  a  ha'porth 
of  good." 

"Ha-ha!  "he  laughed. 

This  enviable  couple  conducted  what  there  was  of  con- 
nubial life  between  them  on  humorous  terms. 

"Supposin'  I  did  catch  the  chap,"  proceeded  his  lord- 
ship, eating  voraciously  as  he  spoke,  "nice  kind  of  fellow 
I  should  be  to  preach  morality  at  him." 

"You  would,  indeed,  dear  Wurzel." 

His  pale  eye  fixed  her  for  a  second. 

"Would  what?"  -  (The  best  people  don't  waste  time 
on  manners  nowadays.) 

"Be  a  nice  kind  of  fellow." 

He  kept  staring  till  the  joke  side  ef  the  question  had 

379 


380  PANTHER'S    CUB 

penetrated ;  then  broke  into  his  guffaw.  She  tinkled  after, 
less  convincingly  than  usual. 

"If  a  fellow  wants  to  hang  himself,  why,  let  him  hang 
himself,  I  say." 

"  By  all  means,  let  him,"  said  Cassandra. 

"If  Desmond  chooses  to  bust  himself  up  at  the  F.  O., 
let  him  bust  himself  up!  Only  make  the  scandal  worse 
if  you  try  to  stop  it." 

"Much  worse,"  she  sweetly  agreed. 

"Look  here,  Cassie,"  said  his  lordship  at  the  end  of  the 
meal.  "I'm  off  to  Newmarket,  old  girl.  So  if  there's 
any  fresh  row,  if  mater  toddles  round,  or  anything,  you 
can  just  let  'em  know,  you  know." 

"Ta-ta,"  she  said,  nodding  her  pretty  head. 

No  news,  however,  had  penetrated  from  Lowndes 
Square  or  Prince's  Gate  to  Sturminster  House  till  the 
next  morning,  when  a  distracted  letter  from  Sir  Joseph 
arrived  by  special  messenger  at  an  hour  when  only 
the  under-servants  of  that  establishment  were  thinking 
of  rising. 

It  was  addressed  to  the  Most  Honourable  the  Marquis 
—  or  the  Most  Honourable  the  Marchioness  of  Stur- 
minster, and  urged  either  or  both  to  join  in  an  immediate 
and  desperate  expedition  to  save  the  family  honour. 

Cassandra,  lost  in  down  and  lace  and  a  kind  of  rococo 
riot  of  filmy  lawn  and  pink  ribbons,  pondered  a  while,  and 
then  made  up  her  mind. 

She  ordered  the  car  round  at  half-past  eight,  and  that 
extraordinary  matutinal  hour  saw  her  whirling  away  to 
Victoria  station,  her  countenance  enveloped  in  almost 
impenetrable  folds  of  gray  gauze. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  381 

From  her  carriage  window  at  Dover  she  watched  the 
portly  forms  of  her  brother-in-law  and  the  critic  toddling 
down  the  station  to  the  waiting  row  of  flies;  and  only 
when  invited  to  do  so  by  the  guard  did  she  alight  with  a 
little  artfully  surprised  laugh;  and  in  her  turn  order  her- 
self to  be  driven  to  Biddicombe's  Hotel. 

She  had  studied  Sir  Joseph's  letter  more  than  once 
during  the  journey  down  and  had  pondered  upon  it 
with  a  very  unusual  seriousness  upon  her  elfish  counten- 
ance. 

"The  detective  has  informed  us,"  wrote  Sir  Joseph  — 
his  formal  business  hand  driven  by  a  passion  that  scored 
the  page  fiercely  black  —  "  that  from  unimpeachable  infor- 
mation Desmond  and  that  infamous  young  woman  have 
been  traced  from  Branksome  to  the  Hotel  Cecil  —  thence  to 
Canterbury,  and  thence  again  to  one  Biddicombe's  Marine 
Hotel,  Dover,  where  they  have  put  up  for  the  night.  They 
proceeded  by  motor  car,  which  was  noted  on  more  than 
one  occasion  for  exceeding  legal  speed  limit." 

It  was  singular  that  Cassandra,  so  easily  moved  to 
laughter,  should  not  have  had  a  smile  for  this  pompous 
phraseology;  or  even  for  the  comic  incongruity  of  the 
name  of  the  Hotel  which  the  eloping  pair  had  selected. 
Through  the  mist  of  her  veil  she  now  ran  her  eye  in  aston- 
ishment over  its  dingy  facade;  then  alighting,  paid  the 
cabman  extravagantly  and  paused  a  second  to  listen  to 
the  sound  of  a  voice  issuing  from  the  open  bow  windows 
of  the  first  floor.  She  recognized  the  M.  P.'s  grating 
accents. 

"  Mr.  Scott,  this  is  indecent  — 

Then,  a  little  nervously,  she  entered  the  hall.     The 


382  PANTHER'S     CUB 

haggard  form  of  an  incredibly  grease-spotted  and  unmis- 
takably German  waiter  rushed  to  meet  her.  She  hesi- 
tated and  softly  enquired  if  there  was  not  a  Mademoiselle 
Lovinska  in  the  house. 

Hermann  drove  a  grimy  hand  across  his  harassed  brow. 
There  was  a  young  lady,  who  first  called  herself  Mrs. 
Brown,  and  whom  Mrs.  Biddicombe  now  spoke  of  as 
Miss  Loosky.  He  hardly  liked  himself  to  pronounce 
upon  so  complicated  a  matter;  and  after  writhing  some 
seconds  in  the  dilemma,  suggested  an  interview  with  Mrs. 
Biddicombe  herself. 

"  If  madame  will  walk  into  the  coffee-room  ?  " 

After  some  delay  —  minutes  which  seemed  of  intol- 
erable length  to  Cassandra  in  the  dreary  surroundings 
of  that  apartment  —  the  proprietress  duly  presented  her- 
self. She  gave  the  seated  veiled  figure  an  inclination  that 
was  cool,  not  to  say  suspicious. 

"  What  might  you  be  wanting  with  me,  if  you  please, 
madame?  If  it  is  accommodation " 

With  an  impulsive  gesture  the  other  flung  back  her 
motor  veil. 

"  I  am  Lady  Sturminster  — "  (Mrs.  Biddicombe  felt 
that  her  first  suspiciousness  had  been  more  than  justi- 
fied: "It  was  another  of  them."  But—)  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Biddicombe,"  the  soft  Southern  voice  went  on  and  what 
it  said  was  as  astonishing  as  it  was  gratifying  to  the 
hearer.  Stiffness  melted  from  that  good  woman's  deport- 
ment as  rapidly  as  from  a  jelly  in  the  sun.  There  ensued 
a  rapid  and  animated  dialogue,  at  the  end  of  which,  with 
much  pantomimic  airs  of  precaution  and  many  expan- 
sive smiles,  the  landlady  conducted  the  new  visitor 


PANTHER'S    CUB  383 

tiptoe  up  the  stairs  and  into  "  Miss  Loosky's  "  own  bed- 
chamber. 

Fifi  turned  a  startled  face  from  the  strange  counten- 
ance to  Mrs.  Biddicombe.  She  had  not  the  least  idea  who 
this  tall,  pretty,  fashionable  being  might  be;  but  her  heart 
began  to  beat  violently. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  unknown,  "I'm  Lord  Desmond's 
sister-in-law,  and  I've  come  to  see  if  I  can  help  you." 

"And,  my  dear,"  burst  forth  from  the  triumphant  Mrs. 
Biddicombe,  "  it's  the  —  Marchioness  of  Stunninster." 

The  girl  whitened.  But  Cassandra,  coming  lightly  up 
to  her,  placed  a  butterfly  touch  on  each  shoulder  and  left 
an  almost  intangible  kiss  between  the  waves  of  chestnut 
hair. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  saw  you  the  day  before  yesterday 
at  Branksome.  You  did  not  see  me,  but  I  saw  you  through 
the  window,  you  and  Desmond  sitting  together  by  the 
sun-dial;  I  thought  you  looked  just  lovely,  I  did  indeed," 
as  the  golden-hazel  eyes  fixed  upon  her  became  ever  more 
filled  with  wonder.  "I  thought  you  looked  made  for 
happiness,  and,  my  dear,  I  thought,  too,  I  just  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  your  being  unhappy " 

"  But  I'm  going  to  be  happy,"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  note 
of  fear  sharply  defiant  in  her  voice.  She  stretched  out 
a  hand  toward  the  cardboard  box  on  the  dressing 
table,  and  Cassandra,  following  the  movement,  saw 
that  it  contained  a  bunch  of  lily  of  the  valley,  and  a 
sprig  of  orange  blossoms.  Then  she  knew  what  the  heavy 
fragrance  was,  that  had  greeted  her  nostrils  from  the 
threshold. 


384 

A  quiver  like  that  of  pale  sunshine  passed  over  her  face, 
very  different  from  its  usual  determined  gaiety. 

"I  think  you  will  be  happy,  honey,"  she  said,  under 
her  breath,  then  glanced  across  at  Mrs.  Biddicombe, 
who  stood  surveying  them  with  a  maternal  air  of  respon- 
sibility. 

"Orange  blossoms "  she  said. 

The  good  woman's  countenance  became  illuminated 
with  a  far  more  blatant  effulgence  than  her  own. 

"Did  I  not  know  it?"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her  fat 
palms  together.  "There  now,  Mr.  Meyer  wouldn't 
believe  me  —  and  even  your  ladyship  had  your  doubts. 
I  knew  his  lordship  meant  right :  '  Let  her  wear  white, 
Mrs.  Biddicombe,'  he  says; '  tell  her  to  put  on  the  flowers,' 
he  says  —  dear,  to  be  sure;  and  they  —  orange  blossoms!" 

Her  distended  mouth  suddenly  quivered  at  the  cor- 
ners like  an  overgrown  child's;  her  eyes  became  suffused. 
"  Dear,  to  be  sure,"  she  whimpered,  "  if  it  were  my  own 
daughter  I  couldn't  be  more  glad!  Miss  Loosky,  my 
dear,"  she  proceeded  on  a  fresh  impetus,  "  it's  my  opinion 
his  lordship  means  to  make  you  his  bride  this  very  morn- 
ing." 

She  broke  off.  The  lovely  young  Marchioness  gave 
her  an  unmistakable  sign  of  warning,  and  then  she  saw 
with  some  dismay,  that  Fifi's  head  was  bending  low  under 
the  wings  of  her  sheltering  hair,  as  if  she  wished  to  hide 
her  face. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Biddicombe,"  said  Cassandra,  with 
a  delicate  deliberation,  "it  isn't  always  easy  to  arrange 
for  a  runaway  match.  I  daresay  my  poor  brother-in- 
law  has  had  endless  difficulties." 


PANTHER'S    CUB  385 

Fifi  jerked  up  her  head;  suddenly  caught  Cassandra's 
hand  and  kissed  it. 

Cassandra  gave  her  fingers  a  quick  little  pressure,  and 
proceeded  with  brisk  cheerfulness  as  if  quite  unaware 
of  any  need  for  emotion. 

"  But  orange  blossoms,  and  a  white  dress  —  yes,  it  does 
look  like  the  wedding  to-day." 


VI 
FRITZ  GIVES  HIS  CONSENT 

LORD  DESMOND  and  Fritz  Meyer  stood  face  to  faee; 
and,  in  the  silence  the  sounds  from  the  inner  room  were 
indistinctly  audible  to  both.  A  woman's  soft  voice, 
the  rustle  of  garments  shaken  free  of  tissue  paper,  a  sub- 
dued current  of  laughter,  and  all  at  once  Fifi's  young  voice 
on  a  high  note  of  joy.  "Oh — !  Mayn't  I  ask  him?" 

The  colour  sprang  to  Desmond's  cheek;  he  made  a 
movement  toward  the  door  even  as  the  handle  rattled 
under  an  impulsive  hand. 

"Lord  Desmond  —  are  they  gone?  Oh,  Lord  Des- 
mond!" Then,  with  a  falling  note  of  disappointment: 

"Oh "  as  Fritz's  outstretched  arm  kept  the  door 

from  opening. 

"One  moment,  child!"  commanded  the  old  musician. 
Even  as  he  spoke  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  with- 
drew it.  And,  once  again,  the  "Oh!"  was  repeated  in  a 
still  more  pronounced  tone  of  chagrin. 

Then,  in  a  low  voice  of  controlled  anger: 

"Will  you  kindly  step  aside?"  said  Desmond  to  the 
interloper.  "I  have  to  speak  to  my  bride." 

"One  moment,  young  man,"  said  the  other  again,  com- 
ing down  into  the  room  and  standing  so  as  to  guard,  this 
time,  the  other  door.  "You  have  spoken  brave  words 
about  your  bride,  just  now.  But  explain  to  me  this  thing) 

386 


"JJ7//  you  kindly  step  aside?"  said  Desmond  to  the  inter- 
loper.    "/  Juive  to  speak  to  my  bride  " 


PANTHER'S     CUB  387 

if  you  please."  His  lowered  accents  took  a  deeper 
emphasis:  "How  comes  it,  Lord  Desmond  Brooke,  that 
this  maiden  has  been  one  day  and  one  night  under 
your  protection  and  is  not  yet  Lady  Desmond  Brooke  ? " 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?"  said  the  younger 
man,  flashing.  "Stand  out  of  the  way,  sir!  —  What  a 
ridiculous  situation !  What  the  devil  is  it  to  you  ? "  he 
cried. 

"It  is  a  great  thing  to  me.  Your  deeds  and  your 
words,  look  you,  my  lord,  are  in  discord." 

"My  deeds  and  my  words  — "  retorted  Lord  Desmond 
fiercely.  But  he  broke  off  under  the  fulminating  glance, 
the  roar  that  fell  upon  him  from  the  old  man : 

"You  have  sullied  her  good  name." 

"Good  God!"  Desmond  caught  Meyer  by  the  arm. 
"Lower  your  voice,  man,  she  may  be  listening!"  There 
was  a  moment's  heavy  silence,  while  Meyer,  breathing 
hard,  held  the  other  under  a  glance  that  seemed  as  if  it 
would  fain  tear  the  flesh  from  him  to  get  to  his  heart. 
"  She  believes  in  me  —  she  believes  in  me  completely " 

"  Ach  —  The  German,  in  his  turn  laid  a  heavy 

hand  upon  the  speaker,  and  drew  him,  unresisting,  to  the 
window.  "It  is  so,  then,  as  I  suspected,"  he  denounced, 
and  the  whisper  in  which  he  spoke,  increased  rather  than 
diminished  the  force  of  the  indictment.  "You  hound, 

you  took  her  to  betray  her !"  Then  his  rage  fell 

away  beneath  a  storm  of  tender  remembrance.  "She 
prayed  at  my  knee,  last  night!" 

Lord  Desmond  was  struggling  with  an  emotion  not  less 
than  that  of  the  old  musician. 

"Her  innocence  enfolded  her,"  he  cried,  "like  wings, 


388  PANTHER'S     CUB 

like  angels'  wings !  And  I  —  I  have  been  kneeling  at 
her  feet  in  my  heart,  the  whole  night!  When  I  took  her 
away  I  —  you  are  right  —  I  don't  want  to  excuse  myself 
—  I  don't  want  to  speak  of  that  —  All  night,  all  night, 
the  old  beautiful  words  have  been  ringing  in  my  ears  — 
'  a  garden  enclosed  is  my  sister  and  my  spouse  — '  Dash- 
ing along  at  mad  speed,  every  throb  of  the  motor  beat 
them  into  my  brain.  Oh,  cannot  you  see  how  it  has 
been?" 

If  Meyer  had  wanted  to  tear  the  heart  from  the  man's 
body,  it  was  now  as  if  he  held  it  between  his  hands. 

"She  is  a  child  —  she  trusted  you,"  he  said  slowly. 

"She  trusts  me,"  passionately  amended  Desmond. 

"And  now,  you "  The  old  man  spoke  with  the 

grave  authority  of  one  who  has  a  right  to  question;  and 
the  young  man  went  on  as  if  he  accepted  that  right. 

"I  have  scarcely  drawn  a  breath  since  I  understood. 
All  night  I  have  been  working  —  to  repair.  I  flew  to 
Canterbury  for  a  special  licence.  I  had  to  get  a  licence 
for  to-day.  I  scarcely  know  how  I  managed  in  the  time, 
by  what  insistence,  what  frantic  expense  of  bribe  and 
argument.  Somehow  I  got  round  the  authorities.  My 
name  worked  something,  my  money  more;  back  in 
Dover  at  ten  —  had  to  make  myself  decent  to  see  the 
clergyman;  I  had  warned  him  by  telegram.  Oh,  yes, 
she  shall  be  married  in  Church.  —  You  see,  you  under- 
stand, I  want  her  to  feel  that  all  is  right  with  us,  all 
sanctified.  The  mere  registry-office  marriage  is  not  for 
her  —  I  must  bring  her  to  the  altar." 

He  fell  suddenly  silent,  then  resumed  between  his 
teeth: 


PANTHER'S    CUB  389 

"I'd  rather  blow  my  brains  out  —  before  God,  I'd 
rather  kill  her  than  that  she  should  ever  know!" 

Fritz  Meyer  drew  a  long  breath  and  relaxed  the  mighty 
gaze  that  seemed  to  have  driven  the  other  man  to  utter 
self-betrayal.  Desmond  passed  his  hand  dazedly  over  his 
head. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  he  said,  wearily,  "why  on  earth  I 
should  be  saying  all  this  to  you!" 

Silently  the  repetitor  limped  to  the  bedroom  door, 
inserted  the  key,  and  unlocked  it.  Then  he  stood  aside, 
and  with  that  gesture  of  sweeping  command: 

"You  may  go  to  her,"  he  said.  "You  need  fear  no 
difficulty  about  your  marriage." 

Desmond  stared.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  hypnotized, 
and,  once  more  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if 
to  wipe  away  the  dazed  impression.  Then  he  hastened 
to  the  door  and  knocked. 

Promptly  Mrs.  Biddicombe  opened  and  pushed  Fifi 
across  the  threshold  with  a  motherly  hand.  Desmond's 
eyes  lighted  at  sight  of  the  tall  white  figure;  but  a  moment 
after,  he  found  himself  staring  again.  Behind  the  lovely 
apparition  of  his  bride,  Cassandra  was  advancing  toward 
him,  her  lips  arching  into  smiles. 

"We've  done  our  best,  my  lord,"  Mrs.  Biddicombe  was 
saying  in  her  jovial,  wheezy  tone.  "Though  it's  a  bride 
in  white  serge,  your  lordship  has,  I'm  sure  she  looks  a 
picture!  And,  your  lordship,  it  has  to  be  a  hat!  But 
those  white  wings  are  that  becoming  —  and  after  all, 
there's  no  mistaking  orange  blossom." 

Lord  Desmond  had  taken  Fifi's  hand  into  his  and  drawn 
her  to  his  side  —  white-winged  hat  and  white  serge  gar- 


390  PANTHER'S    CUB 

ments,  she  was  the  most  beautiful  and  desirable  of  brides. 
But  his  glance  sought  beyond  her,  questioning  the  mean- 
ing of  Lady  Sturminster's  presence. 

Cassandra  then  came  forward. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "dear  Virginia.  Desmond, 
will  you  listen  to  me  for  a  second  ?  " 

Fifi,  bewildered,  stepped  back  to  find  Meyer's  arm 
around  her.  And  while  the  old  man  silently  held  her 
encircled,  brother  and  sister-in-law  retired  to  the  window- 
bow  and  held  a  brief  colloquy.  Mrs.  Biddicombe  surveyed 
them  from  the  threshold  with  critical  satisfaction:  two 
noble  aristocratic  beings  they  were! 

"I've  come  as  a  friend,  Desmond,"  said  Cassandra, 
leaning  toward  him  and  speaking  low,  with  unwonted 
gravity  on  her  childish  face. 

Still  his  eyes  questioned.     She  hesitated. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  you  meant  to  do  with  her,"  she 
said  at  last,  looking  down.  Then  she  suddenly  opened 
the  full  softness  of  her  glance  upon  him.  "I  didn't 

want "  she  began,  and  then  laughed,  though  with 

a  little  catch,  as  though  the  pretty  mechanism  of  her 
laughter  did  not  work  very  well  any  more.  "  I  didn't 
want  another  life  spoilt  by  you  Brookes." 

And  as  she  said  these  words,  the  man  looking  at  her, 
knew  all  at  once,  and  wondered  how  he  had  never  seen 
it  before,  that  that  mask  of  gaiety  was  but  the  merest 
film  —  trying  to  cover  the  tragedy  of  a  broken  heart. 

From  his  own  stirred  emotions  there  was  about  to 
spring  a  deep  word  of  sympathy ;  but  with  a  flickering  side- 
long look  and  a  smiling  curve  of  lip,  mutely  she  forbade 
it.  She  chose  to  laugh  instead  of  to  cry;  that  was  her 


PANTHER'S    CUB  391 

way,  let  it  be  respected!  Awkwardly  he  changed  the 
words  that  were  upon  his  lips. 

"And,  if  you  had  found  me  as  bad " 

"  As  Wurzel  ? "  she  concluded  with  her  usual  airiness. 
"I'd  have  taken  her  then." 

"What?" 

"I'd  have  taken  her  from  you,  I  say;  and  just  made  it 
straight  —  as  straight  as  I  could.  Oh,  when  I  saw  that 
young  thing,  two  days  ago,  I  just  knew  what  she  was. 
And  so  —  you  see,  we  Americans,  we  aren't  like  you,  we 
haven't  got  all  those  fine  distinctions  of  class  you  have 
over  here  —  my  heart  went  out  to  her,  I  just  felt  as  if 
she  was  a  young  sister." 

"Cassie,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  good  woman." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  She  drew  it  from  his 
clasp. 

"  Hurry,  now." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said  and  looked  at  his  watch.  As 
he  came  down  into  the  room,  Fifi  impulsively  sprang 
toward  him. 

"  We've  got  to  be  in  Church  in  ten  minutes,  Virginia." 
Cassandra  stood  in  the  window,  watching  them.  No 
one  was  paying  any  attention  to  her;  for  once  she  could 
let  the  tears  well  into  her  eyes. 


VII 
LA  MARMORA'S  FINAL  DEFEAT 

PERHAPS  the  most  astounding  of  the  astounding  array 
of  visitors  that  had  passed  through  the  unobtrusive  por- 
tals of  Biddecombe's  Hotel  these  last  twenty-four  hours, 
was  now  deposited  by  the  big  sixty. 

This  monstrous  machine  ground  into  the  little  street 
like  an  engine  of  destruction;  and  ejected  like  a  bomb 
the  form  of  Madame  la  Marmora. 

She  dashed  into  the  hall  as  if  propelled  by  an  exterior 
force;  and  almost  prostrated  Sir  Joseph  who  hurried  out 
from  the  front  sitting  room  to  meet  her.  Flung  back  upon 
her  fierce  advance,  she  surveyed  him  with  a  look  that  was 
like  a  slap  in  the  face. 

"  Well !     You !  —  you  Smith,  where  is  my  daughter  ?  " 

Scott,  grinning  in  the  doorway,  turned  upon  the  sound 
of  another  approaching  footstep,  to  grin  again  as  he  beheld 
the  Baron's  figure,  blocking  up  the, entrance. 

"Your  daughter,  Madame,"  said  Sir  Joseph  vindic- 
tively, "is,  I  understand,  dressing  herself  for  her  mar- 
riage with  my  unhappy  brother-in-law." 

Fulvia  la  Marmora  repeated  the  word,  upon  a  whis- 
pering breath: 

"  Marriage ! " 

Scott  could  see,  silhouetted  against  the  outer  light, 
the  shrug  of  the  impresario's  shoulders. 

392 


PANTHER'S    CUB  393 

"Where  is  she?"  demanded  the  mother  savagely,  and 
caught  Sir  Joseph's  woodenly  gesticulating  gloved  hand. 

"You'll  find  them  on  the  first  floor,"  said  the  Member 
of  Parliament,  unconsciously  returning  that  contamina- 
ting pressure  in  the  abandonment  of  a  common  emotion. 
"  Lord  Desmond  is  in  the  sitting  room,  the  door  just  facing 
you  on  the  landing." 

There  was  a  rush  like  the  passage  of  a  storm  wind  as 
La  Marmora  tore  past  him  to  the  stairs,  her  silk  motor 
cloak  noisily  brushing  the  narrow  walls  on  either  side  as 
she  went. 

"She  won't  knock  on  the  door,"  remarked  Scott. 
"Well,  Baron,  aren't  you  going  to  run  after  her?  Hullo, 
I  say,  why  not  do  the  Lochinvar  business,  with  that  car 
at  the  hall  door?" 

While  Sir  Joseph  panted  and  puffed  and  wiped  his 
forehead,  swelling  with  melancholy  triumph  at  his  own 
masterly  operations,  the  impresario  advanced  with  his 
usual  deliberation,  and  gently  pressed  Mr.  Scott  on  one  side 
in  order  to  pass  into  the  room.  He  sat  down  then,  upon 
the  first  chair,  and  said,  drawling  even  more  than  usual: 

"It  strikes  me,  Mr.  Scott,  that  the  Lochinvar  busi- 
ness has  been  pretty  successfully  done  already.  No, 
sir,  I'm  not  here  after  the  daughter,  I'm  here  after  the 
mother." 

"Good  God!"  said  the  baronet,  as  he  joined  them. 

"Oh,  Salome!"  interpreted  the  critic,  and  a  peculiar 
glance  came  into  his  eyes.  "Well,  she  is  playing  hell 
and  Tommy  upstairs.  Hadn't  you  better  look  after 
Salome?" 


394  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Robecq,  with  apparent  irrele- 
vance, "that  they'd  be  capable  of  providing  me  with  an 
egg  flip  in  this  —  place  ?" 

"Rummy  sort  of  place  for  his  lordship  to  have  chosen!" 
interpolated  Scott.  "Yes  —  I  should  think  you  might 
get  an  old  egg  or  so." 

"And  some  young  brandy "  smiled  the  Baron. 

He  was  astonishingly  calm,  though  there  was  now  a  thud 
of  feet  overhead  and  a  confusion  of  voices. 

"She'll  tear  the  cub  limb  from  limb,  I  vow!"  said 
Scott,  all  delighted  intentness,  while  the  other  concluded 
his  phrase  with  a  placidity  which  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  neither  interruption. 

"Well  beaten  up  together,  perhaps  we  could  disguise 
that  egg  —  she's  had  nothing  to  eat  to-day." 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell  as  he  spoke. 

"Baron,"  said  Scott,  running  to  the  door  and  running 
back  again,  grinning  with  eagerness,  "oughtn't  you, 
oughtn't  we  really  to  see  what's  going  on  up  there  ?" 

"Oh,  let  her  scream  off  the  first  steam  —  I'll  come  in 
with  the  egg  flip,"  said  the  philosophic  manager,  again 
pulling  the  old-fashioned  bell-rope. 

"Listen  to  her!  —  listen  to  her!"  cried  Scott  again. 

"Perhaps,  indeed,  we  ought  to  lend  Madame  la  Mar- 
mora the  weight  of  our  presence,"  suggested  Sir  Joseph, 
who  was  now  possessed  by  as  kindling  a  desire  to  be  in 
at  the  fray,  as  the  critic  himself. 

"Mr.  Scott,"  said  Robecq,  "would  you  mind  hanging 
on  to  that  bell-rope  ?  —  I  just  want  to  write  out  a  tele- 
gram." 

He  sat  down  at  the  battered  writing  table  and  began 


PANTHER'S     CUB  395 

to  write  carefully  with  a  fountain  pen.  The  wording  of 
this  despatch  had  been  rehearsed  many  times  between 
the  night  of  the  garden  party  and  this  morning.  It  was 
addressed  to  Madame  lima,  in  Prague,  and  ran,  in  Ger- 
man, to  this  effect: 

"Would  you  be  disposed  to  undertake  the  part  of 
Salome  for  me  in  London.  First  performance  Covent 
Garden,  June  23rd." 

"Here  is  the  waiter,"  interrupted  Scott. 
Robecq  unostentatiously  folded  the  telegram. 
"He'll  have  it  posted  for  you,"  suggested  the  critic. 
"Thank  you,  dear  friend,"  said  the  manager.     "I'm 
not  yet  sure  if  I'll  have  to  send  it." 

La  Marmora  broke  into  the  room  even  as  Desmond 
had  taken  her  daughter's  hand  to  lead  her  downstairs. 
She  hurled  herself  upon  them  in  her  whirlwind  fury; 
halted  a  single  second  to  grasp  the  scene  and  then  fell 
upon  the  girl  like  a  hawk  upon  its  prey. 

"So,  I've  caught  you,  miss!" — With  an  irresistible 
strength  she  dragged  her  from  her  bridegroom's  side. 
Then  as  the  orange  blossom  and  lily  of  the  valley  at  Fifi's 
breast  struck  her  senses,  a  convulsion  passed  over  her  face. 
"Ah,  mais  won/"  she  cried,  "we've  no  use  for  orange 
blossom  to-day." 

"Mama!  — Mama!" 

The  flowers  were  within  the  frenzied  woman's  grasp. 
She  turned  her  face,  a  mask  of  fury  upon  the  man : 

"Lord  Desmond,  I'll  ruin  you  for  this!" 

He  felt  helpless    before  such  a  display  of  virdence; 


396  PANTHER'S     CUB 

unable  to  meet  an  experience  so  foreign  to  even-  instinct. 
to  every  convention  of  his  life. 

"Let  the  maiden  go!" 

It  was  Fritz  who  spoke.  Not  angrily,  nor  even  loudly; 
and  yet  it  was  as  if  the  sound  of  those  few  words  withered 
the  woman's  rage  with  a  livid  terror.  She  dropped  Fifi's 
arm,  cowered  back,  and  stared  at  the  old  musician : 

"You  — here!" 

Fritz  came  forward  and  took  the  centre  of  the  room; 
at  the  same  time,  it  seemed,  the  centre  of  authority.  In 
his  shabby  clothes,  with  his  haggard,  unshorn  face,  with 
his  heavy  simplicity  of  speech  and  manner  he  yet  once 
again  dominated. 

"Madame  la  Marmora  has  been  in  anxiety  about  her 
daughter — "  he  said;  "anxiety  wantonly  inflicted.  But 
when  she  knows  that  the  young  lady  is  about  to  espouse 
the  man  of  her  choice,  she  will  withdraw  all  opposition  to 
the  union." 

"Miserable!"  screamed  the  singer,  recovering  the  cour- 
age of  her  passion. 

"Lord  V  mercy!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Biddicombe. 

"Take  your  bride  away,  Lord  Desmond,"  ordered  Fritz. 

"I  forbid  the  marriage!  —  I  will  forbid  it  at  the  altar!" 

The  Panther  was  on  the  spring  again.  But  now  the  old 
man  came  between  her  menace  and  the  lovers,  with  uplifted 
hand. 

"She  will  have  her  mother's  consent."  He  raised  his 
voice  over  the  rising  outcry.  "Madame,  I  claim  my 
right!" 

Once  again  she  shrank,  cowered.  He  kept  her  for  a 
moment  under  his  glance,  and  then  went  on  quietly. 


PANTHER'S    CUB  397 


"My  right  —  as  an  old  friend " 

There  was  a  pause.  Cassandra,  white  and  shaken, 
came  down  into  the  room;  and,  picking  up  the  flowers 
on  the  floor,  began  to  fasten  them  again  at  the  girl's  breast. 

"  Madame  la  Marmora  consents  to  your  marriage  — 
Miss  Fifi,"  said  Fritz.  "Take  her  away,  Lord  Desmond, 
I  say." 

There  was  a  moment's  breathlessness  in  which  every 
one  instinctively  waited  for  the  denial.  The  prima  donna 
stood,  huddled  together,  glaring  under  her  eyebrows, 
drawing  her  breath  hissingly  between  closed  teeth;  the 
very  personification  of  hatred,  of  opposition,  of  vengeance 
baffled.  But  she  spoke  no  word. 

"Go,"  said  the  musician  again.  Then  Desmond 
silently  took  Fifi's  hand  within  his  arm  and,  followed  by 
Cassandra,  moved  toward  the  door. 

Mrs.  Biddicombe  vanished  discreetly  by  the  bedroom. 

"I'll  stand  by  you,  dear,"  whispered  Lady  Stunninster 
to  Fifi,  striving  to  bring  comfort  into  the  words.  But  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  went  slowly  and  silently  forth,  with 
the  weight  of  the  mother's  unspoken  curse  upon  their 
hearts. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Mr.  Scott,  rushing  to  the  win- 
dow; "they're  off!" 

The  Baron  stopped  in  his  careful  beating  of  yolk  and 
brandy  and  looked  up,  then,  with  an  unexpected  agility, 
arrested  Sir  Joseph  in  his  bovine  charge  upon  the  door. 

"No,  my  dear  sir,  you  don't,"  he  purred.  "You  just 
keep  quiet  — keep  quiet,  I  tell  you." 

He  held  a  dripping  fork  in  one  hand  and  the  baronet's 


398  PANTHER'S    CUB 

coat  sleeve  by  the  other.  Whether  it  was  the  fear  of 
receiving  any  of  that  doubtful  yolk  upon  his  garment, 
or  that  his  innate  dignity  recoiled  from  a  personal  struggle, 
certain  it  is  that  Sir  Joseph  remained,  inactive;  — pro- 
testing, indignant,  agonized,  but  inactive. 

Mr.  Scott,  peering  over  the  grimy  blind,  kept  up  a  run- 
ning fire  of  comments,  each  of  which  seemed  to  strike 
the  baronet  like  pellets  of  shot. 

"There  she  goes! — All  in  white,  ha-ha! — and  — 
impossible!  Yes — dash  my  soul!"  cried  Mr.  Scott, 
struck  into  an  unusual  vigour  of  expletive:  "It's  young 
Lady  Sturminster!  Upon  my  solemn  word  of  honour  it 
is  the  fair  Cassandra!  — As  lovey-dovey  as  you  please  — 
her  arm  about  the  blushing  bride.  Well,  I  daresay  she's 
got  a  score  to  pay  off  with  your  noble  family  —  eh,  Sir 
Joseph?  She's  scoring  'em  off  there! — Oh,  what  will 
Martia  Marchioness  say? —  Off  they  go!  —  Looks  a  little 
down  in  the  mouth,  our  diplomatist!  Wonder  how  the 
cub  managed  it?  Really,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Scott, 
coming  away  from  the  window,  "she's  shown  a  deal  more 
cunning  than  any  one  would  have  given  her  credit  for, 
has  Panther's  Cub!" 

The  Baron  had  gone  back  to  his  egg  flip  and  now  showed 
some  signs  of  haste,  as  he  poured  in  the  hot  milk. 

Sir  Joseph  flung  himself  into  an  armchair.  His  atti- 
tude was  that  of  one  overcome  by  adverse  fate. 

"All  up,  eh?"  said  Scott. 

"Eh?"  repeated  the  baronet  with  a  lack-lustre  glance. 

"U.  P.,  you  know,"  chuckled  the  other.  "Do  you 
think  Panther  and  the  old  German  are  murdering  each 
other  up  there?" 


PANTHER'S     CUB  399 

The  manager  put  down  the  glass  of  flip  and  paused  on 
his  way  to  the  door. 

"What  did  I  hear  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"Old  Fritz,  you  know — Panther's  keeper.  It  is  he 
who  has  done  it  all.  Ain't  it,  Sir  Joseph  ?  —  Bless  you, 
my  children!  Most  extraordinary  business,  you  know, 
Robecq,"  he  proceeded,  warming  to  his  usual  confidential 
inquisitiveness,  when  he  broke  off,  surprised.  The  Baron 
had  walked  back  again  to  the  table,  and,  sitting  down, 
took  up  the  fork. 

"I  reckon,"  he  remarked,  "this  will  be  more  palatable 
if  I  go  on  beating  it  for  some  time.  —  If  Fritz  is  up  there, 
I  needn't  hurry." 


VIII 
JEANNE -MARIE  MEYER 

"Je  les  maudis,  maudis!"  said  the  singer,  as  beneath 
the  window  the  throbbing  of  the  motor  became  lost  in 
the  smooth  roll  of  departing  wheels. 

Fritz  Meyer  turned  his  head.  He  had  been  staring 
out  through  the  open  casement  at  that  peep  of  bright 
seas  between  the  houses.  His  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  the 
tamer,  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  been  Panther's  keeper 
so  long  —  fell  now,  terrible,  upon  the  mother  who  cursed 
her  child. 

"  Jeanne-Marie  Meyer,"  he  said  then,  in  a  voice 
vibrating  with  the  passion  long  gathered  of  years, 
"down  on  your  knees  and  thank  God  that  our  child 
has  gone  in  purity  and  honour,  to  wed  an  honourable 
man!" 

The  singer  shrank  from  him,  tottered  across  the  room 
and  flung  herself  face  downward  on  the  sofa.  There 
she  lay  as  one  annihilated.  After  a  pause  he  moved 
ponderously  nearer  to  her. 

"How  dared  you  curse  our  child!  It  was  not  for 
that  I  left  her  with  you!" 

Her  shoulders  began  to  heave.  The  deep  note  of 
wrath  left  his  tones  and  was  succeeded  by  a  sorrowful 
sternness.  He  went  on  in  German: 

"  Ach,  Frau,  when  from  one  day  to  another  you  turned 

400 


PANTHER'S    CUB  401 

my  poor  little  home  from  heaven  to  hell,  you  left  me  one 
hope  —  one  hope  that  was  also  the  greatest  of  my  griefs : 
you  took  the  child.  Ach,  when  I  sought  you  in 
vain,  both  of  you,  till  there  was  not  a  penny  between 
myself  and  starvation  and  I  had  to  pawn  my  father's 
watch  to  get  back  to  my  work  for  daily  bread,  even 
then  it  was  this  thought  that  kept  the  life  in  me: 
You  had  not  had  the  heart  to  leave  your  little  child 
behind  you!" 

The  heaving  of  the  shoulders  became  more  violent. 
A  kind  of  sobbing  moan  accompanied  it. 

"When  I  found  you  again,"  he  went  on,  and  there 
was  a  hush  in  his  voice;  it  might  have  been  that  of  a  man 
who,  having  fought  in  vain  for  another's  life,  stood  look- 
ing down  at  last  on  the  hopelessness  of  death,  "when 
I  found  you  in  Paris,  you  still  clung  to  the  little  one. 
You  begged  for  her,  with  tears  and  sobs.  It  was  in  my 
power  then  to  let  you  keep  the  child  and  to  help  you 
back  to  an  honest  life  ...  I  left  you  our  child,  I 
stood  by  you  in  your  work,  I  kept  our  secret,  I  was  as 
your  servant  —  I,  who  had  been  your  husband,  became 
for  the  world  your  servant.  I  saw  my  child  grow  up 
under  another's  name  that  she  should  not  know  the  shame 
of  her  mother's  life;  I  obliterated  my  sacred  paternal 
rights.  For  so  many  years,  ah,  so  many  years,  have  I 
been  so  much  less  than  man.  It  was  to  save  you.  Ach, 
fool  that  I  was !  The  child  was  not  to  save  you  .  .  . 
nothing  could  save  you.  You  but  loved  it  as  the  beasts 
do  their  young,  by  the  instinct  of  the  animal.  It  was 
not  your  rival  then ! " 

Her  long  body  writhed  as  if  in  physical  agony.     She 


402  PANTHER'S    CUB 

clenched  and  unclenched  her  hands  and  rolled  her  head 
between  them,  and  the  moan  turned  into  a  snarl,  the 
snarl  of  the  cowed  panther  beneath  the  lash. 

"And  to-day,  ah,  Thou  my  God,  I  see  the  end  of  my 
long  sacrifice.  Unnatural  mother!  Shameless  woman! 
You  had  rather  see  your  child  parted  from  the  man  she 
loves,  see  her  a  creature  for  public  dishonour,  than  know 
her  his  happy  wife !  And  why  ?  For  what  vile  reason  ? 
Because  you,  you  have  fixed  your  shameless  fancy  upon 
your  daughter's  lover.  Ach,  wanton ! " 

She  turned  on  her  side,  drawing  up  her  knees,  and 
with  her  arm  over  her  eyes. 

"  Tais  toi  —  tais  toil"  she  panted. 

"Now  it  is  finished,"  said  Meyer.  He  folded  his 
arms.  "The  man  who  once  loved  you,  who  still  cease- 
lessly worked,  blindly  hoped  for  you,  is  no  more.  He 
who  was  your  husband  is  dead.  .  .  .  The  father 
lives.  The  father  only  is  left.  My  daughter  and  I  pass 
out  of  your  life  for  ever." 

La  Marmora,  huddled  on  the  sofa,  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  knees  and  broke  into  sobbing.  He  came  a 
step  closer  to  her. 

"Ach,  du  weinst!  The  first  time  we  met,  you  were 
crying.  Poor  little  Jeanne-Marie,  the  street  singer, 
beaten  by  the  old  organ-grinder,  whose  thin  little  arm 
was  ever  lifted  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow!  It  was  I  who 
taught  you  how  to  laugh,  how  to  be  afraid  no  more. 
Those  days  in  the  little  home  —  the  home  you  dese- 
crated! Now  it  is  farewell  between  us,  and  again  you 
weep,  wieder  du  weinst!" 

She  lifted  her  head.     She  was  broken,  overthrown. 


PANTHER'S     CUB  403 

But  it  was  anger  still,  the  helpless  anger  of  the  conquered, 
that  looked  out  of  her  streaming  eyes. 

"  You  mean  to  abandon  me,  then  ?  " 

"  Would  you  keep  me  by  your  side  ?  " 

"  Without  you  I  am  lost  —  And  you  know  it ! "  She 
flung  the  words  at  him,  with  a  sudden  ferocity  of  reproach. 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  minute  and  breathed  deep; 
then,  with  a  slight  and  exceedingly  bitter  smile : 

"Fulvia  la  Marmora,  the  great  singer,  is  lost  without 
the  poor  repetitor!  So  be  it  then  .  .  .  for  a  little 
while  —  A  very  little  while,  Jeanne  .  .  !  The  years 
are  coming  on  you  too:  it  is  almost  the  end  of  the  fugue." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  straightened  herself  and  leaned 
toward  him,  with  so  swaying  a  movement  that,  thinking 
she  was  going  to  fall,  he  put  out  his  hand : 

"The  end  of  the  fugue  .  .  .  with  me!"  Her 
tears  were  all  dried  up;  her  very  throat  was  parched. 

By  the  hand  with  which  he  held  her  he  pressed  her 
back  upon  the  sofa.  Then,  sitting  beside  her,  still  keep- 
ing his  grasp  upon  her,  with  a  touch  as  gentle  as  it  was 
merciless,  he  went  on : 

"Already  your  golden  voice  is  leaving  you.  Is  it  not 
so  ?  Note  by  note.  This  year  have  we  not  had  to  trans- 
pose —  Ach!  and  transpose  again  ?  " 

Open-mouthed,  scarcely  breathing,  she  sat,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  face,  as  if  she  had  lost  even  the  power  of 
looking  away. 

"And  your  beauty!  Poor  woman,  day  by  day  that 
is  fading.  Paint  cannot  hide  those  lines,  those  falling 
muscles.  Do  you  think  the  false  brightness  of  your 
hair  replaces  the  old,  wonderful  tint?  .  .  .  For  all 


404  PANTHER'S    CUB 

your  precautions,  your  youth  is  gone  from  you  —  for 
all  your  art  your  voice  is  going ! " 

With  a  movement  as  sudden  as  it  was  fierce  she  leaped 
from  beside  him,  then  tore  her  hat  from  her  head  and 
flung  herself  against  the  chimney-piece  to  stare  at  her 
own  image  in  the  mirror.  One  or  two  china  ornaments 
were  in  her  way:  she  swept  them  from  the  marble. 
Almost  a  minute  was  filled  with  that  desperate  gaze, 
then  she  staggered  back  into  the  room  and  a  long  scream 
rang  from  her  —  a  scream  suddenly  broken,  as  if  the 
vocal  chords  had  given  way. 

With  a  face  blasted  by  terror,  she  caught  at  her  throat ; 
and,  as  she  reeled,  the  old  musician  opened  his  arms 
to  receive  her. 

"Ach,  duArme!" 

He  knew  too  well  what  had  happened.  The  crystal 
was  shattered.  Fulvia  la  Marmora  had  been;  only 
Jeanne-Marie  Meyer  remained. 

"Ach,  du  Arme!"  he  repeated,  clasping  her  close  to 
his  great  breast,  which  rose  and  fell  under  overpowering 
emotion  of  pity.  "  If  all  leaves  you  —  all  the  world, 
all  your  triumphs  —  there  is  still  old  Fritz " 

A  moment  he  pressed  her,  only  the  more  compas- 
sionately for  the  shudder  and  the  groan  of  misery  that 
escaped  her.  Then,  for  there  were  steps  without,  he  made 
her  sit;  and  to  shield  her,  stood  before  her. 

After  a  knock  and  a  discreet  pause,  Robecq  entered. 
A  single  masterly  glance  sufficed  to  show  him  all  there 
was  to  see;  the  shattered  china  on  the  floor,  the  collapsed 
figure  of  the  singer,  leaning  with  both  arms  outstretched 


PANTHER'S    CUB  405 

across  the  table;   her  dishevelled   head  between  them; 
Fritz's  face  of  trouble. 

If  he  had  ever  doubted,  he  doubted  no  longer   what 
was  the  tie  between  them.     But  this  was  none  of  his 
business.     His    business   was   with   only   one   thing  — 
La  Marmora's  voice. 

"One  moment,  mein  bester  Meyer.  Fulvia!  Fulvia 
my  dear,"  he  tapped  her  arm  and  she  raised  her  face. 
He  started  ever  so  slightly  at  sight  of  it,  but  continued 
courageously,  in  his  matter  of  fact,  good-humoured, 
scolding  drawl : 

"Tsha  —  tsha!  .  .  .  And  the  voice?  Drink 
this,  at  once." 

There  was  a  reek  of  brandy  in  the  room  mingling  with 
the  insistent  fragrance  of  a  little  crushed  orange  spray 
on  the  floor. 

The  singer's  lips  moved.  No  sound  came.  She 
reared  herself  in  her  chair,  and  again  both  hands  sought 
her  throat.  At  last,  a  gasping  whisper  came : 

"Imbecile!     .     .     " 

The  impresario's  florid  face  turned  pale.  He  shot 
at  Fritz  one  ferocious  glance  of  inquiry.  The  old  Ger- 
man slowly  bowed  his  head. 

"Twenty  thousand  devils!"  ejaculated  the  impre- 
sario, and,  as  if  scarcely  aware  of  his  own  action,  drained 
the  egg  flip  at  a  draught. 

He  had  long  foreseen  the  possibility  of  such  a 
disaster,  and  was  already  indeed  making  prepara- 
tions against  it;  but  when  it  came  in  reality,  it 
effected  him  oddly;  and  from  an  unwontedly  altruistic 
point  of  view. 


406  PANTHER'S     CUB 

"My  God,"  he  thought,  as  he  laid  down  the  glass, 
"  the  wretched  creature's  face ! " 

La  Marmora  was  no  longer  the  Queen  of  Song  —  she 
was  "  the  wretched  creature!  " 

He  was  a  good-natured  man,  and  he  could  not  endure 
to  remain  in  the  room  with  the  tragedy  a  moment  longer. 

"Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  perfunctorily  consoling,  "get  her 
home,  Fritz,  get  her  home!  I'll  look  in  in  the  evening 
and  bring  a  doctor  —  hein,  I'd  better  bring  a  doctor. 
You'll  soon  be  all  right,  my  dear." 

Already  he  was  on  the  threshold.  He  was  in  a  hurry, 
as  far  as  Robecq  could  ever  be  in  a  hurry,  to  send  that 
telegram. 

Fritz  closed  the  door  which  the  impresario  had  left 
open,  and  came  back  to  the  table. 

La  Marmora  had  fallen  back  into  her  hopeless  atti- 
tude, and  lay  as  one  in  a  stupor.  He  took  a  chair  oppo- 
site to  her,  and  sat  patiently,  his  gouty  foot  extended  in 
its  cloth  slipper,  waiting  till  the  moment  should  come 
when  she  would  turn  to  him.  He  was  the  only  one  she 
could  turn  to  now  in  the  world. 


IX 

LADY  DESMOND 

FIFI  ran  up  to  her  room  alone  to  tie  on  her  motor 
veil.  Lord  Desmond  had  arranged  to  motor  to  Folke- 
stone, dine  there  and  take  the  night  boat. 

At  the  Church  door,  Cassandra  had  taken  leave  of 
them,  with  a  gay  word  to  the  bridegroom :  with  a  speech- 
less, almost  passionate  embrace  to  the  bride.  She  had 
gone  off  in  a  rattling  fly,  drawing  the  gray  gossamer  over 
her  face.  Fifi  did  not  know  why,  but  she  thought  her 
new  sister-in-law  was  crying. 

Preliminary  farewells  had  also  been  exchanged  with 
Mrs.  Biddicombe,  very  exuberant  on  the  good  lady's 
part,  very  generous  on  Lord  Desmond's. 

The  girl  was  glad  to  find  herself  alone  a  moment;  she 
had  so  strange  a  sense  of  mounting  exhilaration  that  it 
seemed  almost  more  than  she  could  bear.  At  the  first 
touch  of  his  ring  on  her  finger,  the  shadow  had  been  lifted 
from  her  heart,  for  ever  —  the  shadow  that  had  lain 
there,  almost  since  she  could  reason  at  all.  The  shadow 
of  the  childhood  without  a  home,  of  the  imprisoned 
girlhood.  The  shadow  of  her  mother's  doubtful  posi- 
tion, of  her  unnatural  jealousy.  The  shadow  of  that 
foolish  Como  adventure.  All  the  accumulated  trouble 
of  the  last  three  days,  culminating  in  the  maternal  male- 
diction; all  had  been  swept  away!  The  old  life  was 

407 


408  PANTHER'S    CUB 

done  with  and  everything  belonging  to  it.  The  Baron 
.  .  .  with  his  false  friendliness  and  his  horrible 
endearments!  .  .  Fritz,  with  his  scoldings,  his  sus- 
piciousness,  his  perpetual  interference!  .  .  .  Scott, 
with  his  sneers.  The  mother  who  hated,  who  struck, 
who  cursed!  It  was  not  likely,  it  was  not  even  possible 
that  she  should  ever  be  brought  into  contact  with  any 
of  them  again,  and  she  was  glad.  She  had  stepped 
into  u  new  and  radiant  life;  and  a  love  beyond  the 
most  romantic  dream  of  her  innocent  imagination 
was  hers. 

All  the  way  back  from  the  church  he  had  hardly 
spoken  a  word  to  her.  But  that  had  not  been  needed; 
the  blue  eyes  had  rested  upon  her  and  brought  to  her 
soul  the  fulfilment  of  that  deep  promise  they  had  held 
from  the  first.  Until  the  motor  stopped,  he  had  clasped 
her  hand,  the  hand  with  the  wedding  ring.  How  strange 
it  felt.  She  looked  at  it  now  as  if  she  could  hardly 
believe  her  vision.  She  was  his  wife  —  Desmond's 
wife!  Oh,  how  right  she  had  been  to  trust  him! 

A  knock  came  upon  the  door.  Just  gathering  up  the 
veil  she  hurried  to  open,  flinging  it  over  her  hat  as  she 
went.  It  was  Desmond. 

"I'm  coming,"  she  explained,  with  a  happy  catch 
in  her  breath.  But,  instead  of  leading  her  downstairs, 
he  pressed  her  back  into  the  room. 

"Wait  a  little,"  he  said  huskily,  "just  for  a  little 
while.  I  want  to  be  in  this  room  with  you,  just  for  a 
minute." 

His  glance  went  about  the  shabby  place,  as  he  spoke, 
rested  on  the  bed  where  she  had  lain  in  her  exhaustion  and 


PANTHER'S    CUB  409 

desolation  last  night,  then  came  back  to  her.  He  put 
out  his  hand  as  if  he  would  take  hers  but  drew  it  back. 

"Why?"  said  she,  all  in  wonder. 

"Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  voice  was  hurried,  low., 
pulsating  with  a  breathless  agitation,  as  if  with  the  over- 
quick  beatings  of  his  heart.  "I  am  afraid  of  you." 

"Afraid     .     .?" 

He  murmured,  as  if  to  himself,  so  low  that  she  could 
hardly  catch  the  words:  'A  garden  enclosed  is  my 
sister  and  my  spouse.  .  .  .'  Sit  there,  darling,  I've 
got  to  make  reparation."  He  knelt  on  one  knee  beside  her: 

"Here,  here  in  this  room.  I  shouldn't  have  taken  you 
away  like  that  —  I  should  have — "  he  caught  himself 
up  —  "I  should  have  managed  better,  differently  —  oh, 
darling,  so  differently!  I  shall  never  forgive  myself. 
But  I  must  hear  you  say  —  you  forgive  me." 

"Oh,  Desmond — "  she  breathed  with  the  soft  sur- 
render of  that  night  when  she  had  first  heard  love  words 
from  his  lips.  The  long  folds  of  her  veil  were  hanging 
loosely  down. 

But,  as  she  leaned,  almost  unconsciously  toward  his 
breast,  he  still  did  not  take  her  in  his  arms,  only  caught 
one  end  of  the  gossamer  and  kissed  it. 

Her  hands  went  out  to  him.  Then  he  kissed  the  finger 
with  the  wedding  ring.  And  only  after  that  at  last  their 
lips  met.  As  he  held  her  she  felt  the  stormy  beating  of 
his  heart  against  her  breast.  Once  he  had  complained 
of  being  "dead"  —there  was  life  —  exultant  life  in  his 
veins  now. 

"My  love,  my  bride  —  my  wife!  Oh,  Virginia,  you'll 
teach  me." 


410  PANTHER'S    CUB 

"Indeed,  yes,"  she  said  bewildered,  yet  ecstatic.  "Only 
what  shall  I  teach  you  ?  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"To  feed  among  the  lilies  — "  he  said.  And  with 
those  strange  words,  led  her  to  the  door. 

Just  outside  the  sitting  room  stood  old  Fritz,  waiting 
for  them. 

Both  halted  as  they  saw  him.  Desmond's  glance  was 
haughty.  This  odd  old  man,  with  his  unwarrantable 
authority,  evidently  hypnotic,  was  almost  the  last  person 
he  desired  to  meet.  The  aristocrat  had  bared  his  heart 
once  to  the  shabby  musician;  there  was  the  more  reason 
now  to  encase  himself  in  the  armour  of  his  class.  In 
Fifi's  glance  was  dismay  —  Had  she  not  done  with  the 
old  life  after  all  ? 

"I  have  but  a  few  words  to  say,"  said  Meyer,  in  a 
laboured  way,  as  if  he  had  read  their  thoughts.  "Only 
to  tell  this  child  over  whom  I  have  watched  all  her  life 
that  her  mother  has  withdrawn  what  she  said  in  anger. 
She  accepts  your  marriage.  She  will  in  time  forgive 
you,  Fifi,  even  if — "  speech  seemed  difficult  to  him: 
he  chose  each  word  as  with  a  painful  deliberation,  "even 
if  you  never  meet  again." 

Old  memories  —  the  suffering  she  read  in  his  eyes  and 
his  face,  overcame  the  girl's  selfish  impulse. 

"Oh,  Fritz!"  she  cried,  and  the  first  tears  she  had  shed 
that  day  gushed  from  her  eyes,  as  she  cast  herself  in 
her  old  headlong  way  into  his  arms. 

"May  the  good  God  keep  you!"  said  the  old  man 
gently.  "May  He  bless  you!" 

He  lifted  her  head  between  both  his  hands,  and  kissed 


PANTHER'S    CUB  411 

tier  brow.  And  turning  to  Desmond  who,  biting  his 
Hp,  had  taken  a  step  back : 

"Forgive  me,  my  lord,"  he  said;  "she  has  been  to  me 
as  my  own  child." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  girl's  hand  and,  as  it  were, 
gave  her  to  her  bridegroom.  His  bearing  was  so  simple, 
that  Desmond  would  not  have  been  the  gentleman  he 
was,  had  he  not  met  him  in  the  same  spirit. 

Taking  the  proffered  hand,  he  paused  on  the  top  of 
the  stairs,  to  say,  with  as  much  cordiality  as  he  could 
force  into  his  voice : 

"I  am  the  last  person  to  wish  my  wife  to  forget  old 
friends,  Mr.  Meyer.  Remember  that  you  will  always 
be  welcome  at  my  house." 

Fritz  Meyer  bowed.  There  was  an  immeasurable 
depth  of  ironic  sorrow  in  those  golden-hazel  eyes,  so  like 
Virginia's: 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Thank  you,  my  lord,  jou 
are  indeed  kind!" 


THE  HND 


A     000137831     4 


